The Heart of the Matter
by Democritas
Summary: Her mother's murder- the case had torn them apart and brought them together before, but never quite like this. That was before love had entered the game. That was before she had to decide which was worth fighting for. AU
1. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Disclaimer**: All recognizable content and characters are the respective property of ABC and the creators of Castle. The world of Castle is a mighty fun sandbox, and I'm only playing in it.

**AN**: This is my first ever story, so please leave a review and let me know what you think!

**Chapter 1 - Down the Rabbit Hole**

Peeking around the stair wall and into the bullpen, her eyes scanned over the room filled with her colleagues with a hasty precision only a detective could acquire. Things were as normal as a typical day at the 12th precinct could be: Ryan was craning over Esposito's shoulder, both ogling at something on the screen; Montgomery was pacing in his office, idly tossing an old dirt-stained baseball in the air while talking on the phone, and many others in uniforms were casually walking by, some with folders in their hands, others guiding perps to lock-up…

Perfect.

As quickly as the glimpse of her smoky brown eyes cased the room, she snapped back behind the wall. She had to be alert; she had to be careful to look normal- well, not suspicious at all- if that were even possible at this point. Steeling herself, she took one last glance up the stairs she had just descended and draped the damp towel in her hands around her neck.

If it weren't for the situation at hand, she would have mentally congratulated herself with how deftly she maneuvered into the room, blending in with the usual bustle of people coming and going as though absolutely nothing suspicious was going on at all- nope, absolutely nothing at all…

Her legs were sore, aching for rest, yet it seemed fate decided to put the slowest moving group of cops in her way. Stealing a peak around a burly officer, she saw her salvation, and that rickety old chair of hers had never looked so soft and inviting before.

Biting her lip, she focused all her thoughts on that chair as the throng of officers slowly shuffled along, trying with every ounce of her willpower to forget about how badly her knees were beginning to tremble, how heavy her eyes felt, and the glowing smile that threatened to hint at exactly how she got that way.

Fate seemed to give her a tiny morsel of mercy when the officers in front of her suddenly banked left, towards the coffee machine in the break room. Her shield from all of those suspicious eyes that she just _knew _were boring holes into her was gone; but this was her chance. Gathering her last vestiges of energy she darted towards her desk, careful not to bump into the chair beside it. Her hand brushed the cold metal surface of her desk and she breathed a sigh of relief. She made it! Closing her eyes, she inhaled the crisp scent of victory; thanking her lucky stars that no one had caught onto her-

"Yo, Beckett!" Esposito's voice shot into her ears like a cannon blast, causing her short-lived mental victory dance to die a very quick, very pitiful death, not to mention making her jump a little.

"Where have you been?" She heard him say. Frozen on the spot, and still completely unsure of what her face would actually belie, she kept her eyes trained on the bouncing elephant screensaver on her computer as she replied.

"Training."

Oops. Her voice wasn't supposed to still sound that… husky.

"You've been working out in the gym this entire time?" Esposito asked incredulously.

She kept her lips tightly shut. She most definitely did not want to reply to that.

"You alright, Beckett?' Ryan piped in, the screechy sound of his chair filled her ears; no doubt he was facing her too. "You were up there for… two hours." The detective paused, undoubtedly for effect. _God those two are such hams._

"Correct me if I'm wrong Detective Esposito," Ryan assumed a serious voice, "but doesn't Detective Beckett usually stride out of there exactly one hour after she starts her workout?"

"I believe you're right, Detective Ryan."

"Hmm." Ryan replied.

"Hmm." Esposito agreed.

Her senses went on high alert. Had they already smelled blood in the water? Could they tell something was up?

"I'm fine, really."

"Oh? Are you sure?" Ryan pressed.

"Yeah, you sound a little, I don't know… winded." Esposito added to his partner's observation with an unnerving level of humor seeping into his voice.

Mindful that her legs were screaming for rest, she steeled herself one more time. She was tired and wanted nothing more than a very soft bed and melt into a very happy, contented pile of goo- but she could do this. All she had to do was give them a quick, commanding, and most definitely a non-husky reply, and they would be out of her hair. _Just say the right thing and they will leave you alone. Act normal. Say the right thing_…

"It got a little rough."

And with those words, the inquisition of Kate Beckett began.

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**2 Months Earlier**

"Castle!" Detective Beckett hissed the very moment the elevator doors opened and she saw the commotion. Around her desk, a group of officers were huddled together, each facing towards something, somewhere in the center, laughing and cheering wildly. It didn't take a rocket scientist to guess what, or who, that something was. Only to make matters worse, Kate was not alone.

Beside her, a tall grey haired man who had yet to take off his issued pitch black sunglasses, looked ahead with the same stony demeanor that hadn't left his face since she he introduced himself in the building's lobby.

"5…4…3…2…1!"

The room broke into cheers and applause.

"Is this establishment always this lively, Detective?" The man asked with not a peep of amusement as they stepped out of the elevator.

"No sir, Agent Brooks." She quickly replied, forcing herself to smile as she gestured for him to follow. Prying her way into the group of people, all of the color drained from her face when she saw just what Castle was doing.

In front of Ryan and Esposito, where Castle's face normally should have been, instead she saw the two detectives holding a pair of legs. Following them down, she saw Castle's face, brimming from ear to ear with a lopsided smile, although his face was turning a few impressive shades of purple. Fire had surely surged in her eyes, for the moment she looked back up at Ryan and Esposito, they caught site of her and immediately dropped the millionaire author and broke for safety of the break room.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you break an alibi!" Castle stood slowly, all the while slightly bowing to the throng of clapping, starry-eyed officers gushing over him.

"Castle, what in the _hell_ are you doing?" Beckett hissed at him, completely forgetting the presence of the federal agent behind her. Her tone was enough to frighten away the rest of the crowd.

"Oh!" Castle whipped around, and if were even humanly possible, his smile grew even wider when he turned to her, not to mention those blasted blue eyes of his started dancing with far too much merriment for her liking. "Good morning, Detective Beckett. I was just showing the guys how it was impossible that Carmel Sucha saw Michael Franks die from too much blood rushing to his head by-"

His excited rambling stopped short when he slowly started to sway a little. Before Kate could decide on whether to catch him or to just kill him, the dizzy author fell back down onto the linoleum floor with a loud pop. From the way he was looking blankly around, vainly attempting to lift his head, she momentarily wondered how well Castle would have done if he had followed his mother into comedic acting. Her anger vanished instantly, replaced with a feeling of… well, she wasn't quite sure. When she was sure that neither Castle nor Agent Brooks was looking at her, she allowed her lips twitch into a tiny smile. The man certainly knew how to entertain.

"Is this Richard Castle, Detective?" Agent Brooks stepped up beside her, all the while looking down impassively at the groaning man on the floor.

Reminded of the agent's presence, she went back into detective mode. "Yes."

Castle slowly lifted himself up, noticing the burly agent for the first time. Extending his hand, he gave the agent a warm smile. "Hi, I'm Richard Castle-"

"New York Times bestselling author, currently working as a consultant for the NYPD Homicide Division. Father unlisted, mother Martha Rogers. Father of Alexis Castle, married twice, divorced… twice." The agent made no motion to shake his hand.

"Um, yeah…" Castle slowly retracted his hand, while giving Kate look of confusion. "That's me in a nutshell."

"A pleasure." The agent drawled. "I will need you two to accompany me to your captain's office. There is something rather urgent we must discuss."

Brooks immediately began walking crisply towards Montgomery's office. Dusting himself off, Castle quickly shot Kate a questioning look, to which she merely shrugged in reply. The pair walked into the office right behind the agent, each of them wondering just what in the world was going on.

After a quick exchange of formalities between Montgomery and Agent Brooks were done, the captain decided to break the ice.

"So what brings a Fed to my precinct today?" The Captain motioned for him to sit.

"CIA." He said as he remained where he stood.

"Beg your pardon, Agent Brooks?" Montgomery asked.

"I am a special investigator for the CIA. And to answer your question, it pertains to a double murder that happened in your area at 6:02 this morning."

That got Castle's and Kate's attention.

"Sir, I've received no calls of any murders today." Beckett interjected.

"That's because," The agent peered at something behind Castle and Beckett. He marched in between them and unceremoniously slammed the office door. "A murder of this… sensitivity, is dealt with by us first, Detective."

"Then why are you here?" Montgomery asked coolly, he wasn't too keen on anybody doing anything with a homicide in his territory.

"I will get straight to the point." Brooks said. "First and foremost, the two people that were murdered were a geneticist by the name of Paul Krashinko, and Senator Alvin Burbury."

Castle visibly tensed beside her. He whispered to her, "The U.S Senator?"

"Second… Senator Burbury left a voicemail to the Mayor's office." Pulling out his cell phone, Agent Brooks held it up and pressed a single button.

There was a loud scratching sound in the background, mixed with the frantic yells of someone nearby. Through the chaotic shouts and running feet, a chilling scream pierced through the tiny phone speaker and a loud pop rang out. For a moment, there was total silence, but then heavy breaths began to grow closer and closer.

"Can't let them win… find Tanner," came the voice of the Senator.

There came a sudden blast of sound and screams, causing Kate and her partner to flinch out of mere instinct. The dull thuds of doors slamming came, then the pounding of footsteps over hardwood floor.

"If you receive this, mayor, find Detective Kate Beckett and Richard Castle."

Kate and Castle leaned closer to the cell phone, both of them holding their breaths.

"They broke this case, and they will be the ones that will end it." Strong footsteps were growing closer to the senator, and judging by how ragged his breath was becoming, it was his killer.

"Find them!" The senator shouted frantically. A gun cocked, slowly and deliberately. It sounded so close...

She felt the fingers of Castle's warm hand twine into hers, and she briefly wondered if it was to calm her nerves or his.

"Tell them Rathborne… Rathborne isn't dead."

The senator gave an unearthly scream before being forever silenced by a final deafening boom.

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AN: I welcome any and all comments or questions. So again, please review!


	2. Dead Man's Hand

**Chapter 2: Dead Man's Hand**

Castle didn't dare to breathe as he watched the middle-aged agent put the phone back inside his jacket. Spinning intricate webs of mystery was his passion, but even the part of him that would go practically giddy over a good plot twist did not want to believe the final words of the later Senator Burbury.

_Rathborne._

_Rathborne... that can't be possible._

Chancing a glance over to Beckett, his heart swelled with sympathy. Her face had lost any hint of its color, setting into a feebly indifferent look. But it was the dulling of her eyes that got him. It was the moment he knew that somewhere inside her right now, she was running for a deep dark place to hide.

It had been a little over a year since she had killed Dick Coonan, and still to this day he could still see the ghost of regret in her eyes. It wasn't her fault, yet the weight of knowing that having any chance of finding those truly responsible for the murder of her mother tore at her ever since that last strangled breath left Coonan's body. He had even tried to exploit that knowledge as leverage, as an emotional nuclear bomb dangling on a stick in front of Beckett to escape the precinct- and honestly for that reason alone, Castle was kind of happy the son of a bitch died.

For better or worse, Coonan died with that information dying along with him. Time, as it always has, went on. There were other cases to be solved, other villains to be caught. Yet, there was a part of him that still replayed those final tumultuous moments of Dick Coonan's life in his head. Each time he saw Beckett twirling her mother's wedding ring around her fingers as she studied the murder board; each time he caught a glimpse of her father's watch as she strapped on a bullet-proof vest; only two painful words were all that would come to his brilliant mind: what if?

Beckett had paled considerably, and a need to protect her, comfort her- hell, to tell her everything would be alright slowly grew in his chest. It was the hardened, tough as nails exterior of Kate Beckett that originally so inspired him to know her- to immortalize her spirit in a book- but to see that façade crumble away had quickly become one of the most agonizing sensations of helplessness he'd ever known.

Yet Kate was a resilient woman in a business of quite a few judgmental men. He knew that she battled every day to show how capable she was as a detective, and she prized the aura of respect she had gained. Showing weakness would demean that, particularly in front of her peers, and Castle knew that all too painfully well since Coonan. But he wasn't about to sit idly by and watch her break. It was in that moment that Castle realized that at some point during the voicemail his hand had found hers, shielded behind them in the creases of his jacket. So, he gave the most comforting gesture he could, silently hoping she wouldn't kill him later on: he squeezed her hand.

Her stony expression receded and she gave her reply: she squeezed backed.

Brooks cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen onto the occupants of the room.

"As you can see, your involvement in this case is paramount." Brooks said as he fell back a rigid stance, his arms falling perfectly to his sides- a trait that screamed career military.

Castle looked from the captain's face to Beckett's, wondering exactly how they were going to approach this situation. They've had some pretty precarious cases, a few high profile ones that teetered on the fringes of outrageous too; but this was something else entirely.

It was Beckett that spoke first. "So I take it you want to know why Senator Burbury asked for us?"

Brooks simply nodded in reply.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know." Beckett said as she glanced over to see Castle shrugging his shoulders. "Neither Castle or I have ever met him before."

"You're certain of this?" The agent replied coolly, catching Castle somewhat off guard.

"Positive." Castle answered. Of all of the famous people he'd met at various events throughout his career, he was pretty confident he'd remember meeting such a powerful Senator.

"Where were Senator Burbury and Mister Krashinko murdered?" Beckett inquired, her voice surprisingly tempered.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, Detective."

"Alright, well what kind of involvement are you talking about here?" Castle supplied, genuinely curious. "Lead the investigation? Supply our records on the Dick Coonan case?"

"I'm not at-" The agent began, but Beckett interjected.

"Then what can we do for you?" Beckett asked as she took a step forward, clearly becoming irritated.

"Again, I'm not at liberty to discuss that until we're in agreement that you will help." The agent replied evenly with no hint of apology.

Castle cocked his brows at the agent. Was this guy playing dumb or was he really stupid enough to smart off to her? _Not at liberty? Do I need to re-_

"-mind you that you're in a police department?" Beckett growled, glaring at the man. Hmm, maybe she was telepathic...

Brooks remained silent, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Beckett... and that was the man's single biggest mistake. In a flash, Castle felt his hand jerk forward as Beckett rushed towards the nonplussed agent. Brooks looked strong, he had an imposing posture about him; his stature reeked of years of combat, his height alone no doubt intimidated anyone who was insane enough to cross him. But the very moment Beckett stood before Brooks, leaning towards him with an unbridling fury sweeping her features, Castle was quickly reminded why even the hardest criminals of New York City crumbled to dust under her withering gaze.

"Detective Beckett! Kate, enough!" Captain Montgomery said, raising his voice. In no uncertain terms, this implied to Castle that killing the agent would get them nowhere fast. Beckett took a step back, sliding next to Castle, but not before sending one more glare Brooks' way.

Montgomery sighed and held up his hand. "Since you're here, Agent Brooks, then I'll assume you already know the story about Dick Coonan." He paused only a moment." Coonan claimed he was the contract killer assuming the alias, 'Rathborne' right before he was stupid enough to try and escape from a police department with a hostage."

"Exactly." Castle added. "Clearly the Senator is wrong. Coonan is dead, hence Rathborne is dead."

"That is one possibility."

"Huh?" Castle guffawed before he could stop himself. This guy was a bona-fide, dyed in the wool, piece of work. Dire situations or not, it was amusing to see a man who works for the government talking exactly like all those conspiracy theorists do about the government.

"Well, Agent Brooks. I do not particularly enjoy being jerked around in my own office, so I will ask you to get to the point." Montgomery said. "What would another possibility be then?"

"That Dick Coonan was indeed known as Rathborne, just as you are a Captain," then Brooks turned to Beckett and Castle. "As are you a Detective and you an Author."

The confusion must have been evident on each of their faces, for Brooks carefully continued. "Dick Coonan was one Rathborne out of many others... Rathborne is not one man. Rathborne is a collective, an organization."

_What the..._

"No," Kate said firmly, shaking her head, "that's impossible."

For the first time since meeting Agent Brooks, Castle saw his expression shift. His cheeks cracked, lines belying his age appeared and stretched out, giving way to knowing smirk.

"Correct me if I'm wrong Detective Beckett, but according to the transcripts of your interrogation, evidence, and accident report following Coonan's death, it was you who concluded that he was the alias Rathborne. Is this correct?"

"Well- yes." Her eyes grew pensive. "Johnny Vong supplied the name, saying that the killer was a hired assassin known as Rathborne. But-"

"Precisely. And during your initial interrogation of Coonan, _you_ brought up Rathborne as a separate entity. It was only from you that Coonan knew that you were aware of this alias."

"Yes," Beckett stuttered, "but the fact remains Johnny Vong cited Rathborne as being only one person."

The tall agent shook his head with no small hint of disappointment. "He was a witness that had only second-hand knowledge of this moniker- who received that information from Dick Coonan himself, by the way."

Beckett was silenced, her look of irritation quickly fading into a very troubled frown.

"So then, would you agree that it is possible that Johnny Vong may have mistaken Dick Coonan's mention of Rathborne as only one person?" Brooks continued. "And during your interrogation, in which _you_ supplied the information that Rathborne was a lone assassin, that Dick Coonan may have exploited that mistake- much like he did when _you_ originally assumed that Rathborne was a separate entity that he had hired?"

"But that's all just supposition." Castle piped up, hoping to squeeze something out of the stalwart agent. Something was not adding up. "I get it that you have evidence, that voicemail from Senator Burbury claiming that Rathborne is real, but how does that automatically lead you to believe we were somehow misled by Coonan, that Johnny Vong was wrong- or hell- maybe even lied to even when all evidence points directly towards Rathborne being one man: Dick Coonan? Agent Brooks, with all due respect how do you think we'll assist you when you're throwing us toothpicks instead of bones?"

Brooks let out a soft sigh. Sensing he had backed the agent into a corner, Castle pressed on. "How do you expect us to believe Rathborne is a group when we have a dead man confessing to being that very same thing?"

"Because, Mr. Castle..." The agent struggled for a moment, and then peered over to the closed blinds of the office once more. "What I'm about to say does not leave this room under penalty of obstruction of a federal investigation, should you choose to decline to help us. Understood?"

"Senator Burbury's personal effects on his body were immediately taken into federal evidence once one particular item was found in his wallet. It was a desk key, specifically to the one he has on Capitol Hill. I cannot divulge the contents of the drawer that it unlocked, but what we found proved to us emphatically that Senator Burbury wasn't lying about Rathborne... because he was a member."

Captain Montgomery's tiny office was suddenly filled with a cacophony of sound, each shout and string of questions aimed solely at the unmoving federal agent. For a few moments, Castle was sure that every cop in the building would hear them, but at that moment, he didn't care if they did- he just wanted answers.

"Well what do you need us for, Agent Brooks?" Montgomery moved back behind his desk. "It looks to me like you're sitting on a goldmine of leads."

"For better or worse Captain Montgomery, Alvin Burbury's last wish on this earth was for us to find Detective Beckett and Richard Castle. He did not ask for the CIA, the NSA, the DHS, or the FBI. He asked for you." Brooks nodded to Beckett and Castle. "For that very reason, one can only assume that he thought that you two could solve this case where the full might of our government could not."

"Apparently that is an unavoidable truth at this point. So, what is your offer?" Montgomery asked.

"That Detective Beckett and Richard Castle join a joint task force headed by the CIA to assist us to their fullest capacity."

"We'll help in any way we can." Beckett said without hesitation.

"Before you sign on, there is more that you need to know." Brooks held up a placating hand. "Your involvement requires, how I should say... extended field work."

The office grew quiet, almost chillingly so. Then Castle saw a spark of recognition in Beckett's eyes just before she whirled around to face the Captain wearing a look of total shock.

"No." The captain growled suddenly. Castle looked on bewildered, feeling totally lost to sudden change in Beckett and Montgomery.

"You will have the backing of every available agency-"

"Absolutely not!" Montgomery yelled, slamming his fist on the desk.

"What's going on?" A feeling of dread poured over Castle. His eyes darted from the shocked expression of Beckett to the blooming hue of outrage in Montgomery's eyes. What did he just miss? What in God's name were they talking about?

Beckett looked to Castle for a moment, and then she sighed. "He's asking for us to go deep."

_Go deep? Is this some football metaphor?_ Castle's mind scrambled to understand. Thankfully Beckett's ability to know what he was thinking kicked in, in usual form, with a huff and a roll of her eyes.

"He wants us to go undercover." She explained as she nodded towards the agent.

Brooks gave a curt nod. "Correct."

"You're telling me that you need my best detective and her partner to go deep undercover for- Jesus, that may take years!" Castle was somewhat awed by the anger in Montgomery's tone and eternally grateful he wasn't on its receiving end.

"I doubt it will-"

"I'm not finished!" Montgomery bellowed as he held his hand up to stop the agent's reply. "Detective Beckett and Mr. Castle have posted the best case record in the city for the past two and a half years. They are my best, they are _the_ best. He has a daughter for crying out loud! You honestly expect me to just give them up to you when you won't even tell us what the hell is going on?"

"Not to me, Captain." The agent reached into his jacket and promptly handed Montgomery a folded letter with a very familiar looking seal. Montgomery took one last withering look at the agent before looking down to the piece of paper. Whatever was written on it caused the captain's usual tempered demeanor to crumble, quickly replaced by a look of shock that Castle had rarely ever seen him don.

"As the letter personally states," Brooks drawled. "The President asks for your cooperation in this, Cap-"

"The President?" Kate and Castle shouted at the same time.

Montgomery slowly put the letter down on his desk and was quite for a moment as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Castle immediately noticed his shoulders were beginning to sag.

"How big is this situation?" The captain said barely above a whisper, his eyes still focused on the presidential seal at the top of the paper.

"Let me put it this way, Captain. The decision that you, Detective Beckett, and Mr. Castle make in this room right now will affect things far beyond this city, and far above anything even a mystery writer can fathom." He finished, staring squarely at Castle. "Mister Krashinko was a specialist in biological-grade weapons."

The implication hit Castle squarely in the gut; his hand immediately went to search for Beckett's once more.

Brooks slowly removed his sunglasses, revealing a pair of steely grey eyes as he looked intently at each other occupant in the room. When he was sure that he'd sufficiently gotten his message across, he passed by Beckett and Castle, who were still wearing expressions of complete shock. He opened the door, and as he stepped up to its threshold, he looked over his shoulder.

"You have one day to make your decision. And remember, under penalty of obstruction of justice in a federal investigation, this does not leave this room." And with that, Agent Brooks disappeared into the innocuous flurry of activity outside.

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**Notes**: I think I watched the Johnny Vong interrogation scene at least 10 times while writing this chapter, and coincidentally enough, the idea for this story actually came from it too.


	3. The Oak and the Ash

**AN**: Chapter 31 is complete and I was feeling so relieved I decided to go on ahead and post this chapter. Two in one day! Enjoy and please take a moment to review!

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**Chapter 3: The Oak and the Ash**

_Kate quietly shut the door behind her, stilling herself only long enough to feel the lock click in to place beneath her trembling fingers. Her breath was growing shallow, catching in her throat. The pictures she usually glanced at on her way down the hall passed by in a haze, muted and indistinct, still washed in shadow. The bath she drew was steaming hot, perhaps painfully so if she cared, but she had already escaped somewhere else at this point. She was following a routine, one that she had rigidly crafted just so in case a day like today would ever come. Her body dutifully washed away the day's wear, the oppressing weight of her job, the tiny stains of Dick Coonan's blood from her hands; her mind, brimming with ache and memory, turned to an unfeeling oblivion, content to vanish in a wandering emptiness while she could muster the strength to do so._

_But she couldn't avoid the truth. What happened today was too personal, too important. This was it, she mused. This was the moment she'd waited ten long ears to see. Yet, where was the feeling of peace? Where was the sense of justice? Where was the solace in knowing she had finally gotten her wish?_

_The water had chilled by the time the tears came- ebbs and echoes of thoughts followed closely behind as she forced herself to her tiny kitchen. Dinner was a messy affair, scattered with bouts of sobs as her resolve to stick to the routine slowly fractured each time her eyes fell on anything that wasn't the plate of Lo Mien in front of her. Even the most mundane of objects around her swirled her thoughts, smoldering the kitchen away to memories of a different place, an easier place. Her mother's silverware nestled in a nearby open drawer- her undying patience teaching a much younger Kate that a spoon wasn't a green pea catapult. The vacant, cooling oven to her right- recalling the feeling of absolute giddiness as she watched her mother pull out a fresh batch of pecan cookies. The miniature porcelain cast of a single white rose stuck to her refrigerator, her mom's favorite- a mirror image of the very same flower her trembling hands laid on an ornate black casket. The very same flower she watched slowly being lowered into the ground with her hero._

_But those memories, they were fading in color as days remembering them blended into years, no longer tangible, increasingly harder to touch. Their details were blurring, fragmenting into a featureless, distorted grey. The days that she thought she would never forget were twisting and melting until they were motionless, more a frozen moment than a living memory. Those few, precious moments had become her life, her sole sense of purpose. On this day, when the purpose of those memories had come so close to fruition, the steady ticking of her bedroom's clock and the fading ghosts in her memories were all she could share it with. And perhaps, that hurt more than anything else._

_It took her much longer than usual to take off her necklace. This was the end of her routine. Each night, the tiny gold band it held would not leave her neck until she was satisfied that she had done all she could. Dick Coonan died today, but that wasn't enough. The result was too bitter. Her mother's murderer was dead, but the bastard was going to the grave with the name of whoever ordered it along with him. And like that, as they say, was the end of the story._

_She looked down into the empty jewelry compartment, nervously looping the chain around her fingers. It had been years since she'd felt this alone, this scared. This tiny gold band symbolized her life for so long, and in a way, her own death. The feeling that she had let her down was unshakable._

_She noticed her copy of Heat Wave resting on the corner of her dresser. Gently, her fingers traced its cover, running over its embossed lettering. A small smile showed for the first time that night. What would her mother say about this- a 208 page testimony of how brave, how extraordinary another person thought she was. Inside those pages Castle painted a picture of a strong, resilient woman who never backed down from a fight- who overcame her own past, making it her badge of courage as she forged her own path._

_...To the extraordinary KB._

_Is that how her mom saw her, how he really saw her? Beyond all the embellishments, beyond the hardened exterior that Castle so easily saw through, he still perceived her spirit so indomitable he immortalized it in canon? Maybe Castle was right. Maybe, no matter what, her mother was proud of her. Maybe this was one of those moments that would justify that pride._

_Maybe the story wasn't over yet._

_She closed the jewelry box slowly, her eyes coming to rest on the framed old picture of her mother and father beside it. She picked it up, cradling it as she looked down to the smiling face of her mother. Holding the picture tightly to her chest, she slowly lifted up her comforter and climbed her way into the soft embrace of her bed, clutching the tiny portrait tighter with each sniffle._

_"Mom," she whispered looking down at the picture through blurry eyes, forcing a watery smile. "I got him."_

Beckett was stirred from her thoughts when a large steamy cup of coffee appeared in front of her.

"I thought you might need it," the voice of Castle came softly from behind her. She carefully took the cup, whispering under her breath heartfelt thanks. Even under circumstances like this, it constantly amazed her that he always seemed to know exactly what she needed.

As Castle slowly sat down onto his chair beside her desk, Beckett returned to staring blankly at the blue and pink elephants bouncing and frolicking around her computer screen.

"It's a lot to take in." Castle spoke suddenly, concern etching his voice. "How do you feel about it?"

"In a word? Overwhelmed." she replied, chuckling bitterly. Mentally replaying the meeting with Agent Brooks over the past four hours made it all the more surreal.

"What's on your mind, Kate?" he asked gently.

She glanced over to see if anyone was close by. A few officers were scattered here and there, not half as many as only hours before. The workday was drawing to a close so it made sense that most everyone was already running for the door. Recently back from her sick leave, Karpowski leaning against Esposito's desk looking a little bedraggled, talking animatedly with a cup of coffee sloshing around everywhere as the two detectives continually nodded, nervously watching her hand.

"How were we so wrong?" she asked in a hushed tone. "I mean, how did we miss this Rathborne thing so badly?"

Castle thought for a moment. "I wouldn't say we were wrong. We took Vong's word for what it was, and it did lead us to Coonan."

She nodded understandingly as her brows furrowed. "While you're right, something just doesn't add up. That's one giant glaring mistake on Vong's part. I mean, why would Coonan deliberately mislead Vong on what Rathborne exactly was?"

"It sounds like a secret society-" he replied with a shrug. "That's not exactly something people advertise being members of."

He had a point, she relented... wait. _Advertise..._

"Not even to a business partner that helped Dick Coonan ship millions of dollars in opium?" She was about to continue when Castle suddenly shot up in his chair.

"It would have added more clout to a deal worth that much money." He said, his eyes shooting to her. "The backing of an organization would have been all the insurance policy Vong needed to be the final corner of a drug triad, the lone man at the top of the pyramid. Support like that would have been a criminal's equivalent to a golden umbrella clause."

"And if things took a turn for the worse, Vong had plenty of money and connections to disappear before one lone drug lord knew. So why did he rat him out? Why stop the supplier and not the supply?" she added, straining her memory to recall every tiny second of her interrogation of Vong.

"Unless," Castle pressed, "Dick Coonan wasn't his only source."

"And he was less afraid of the dagger than he was of the hand holding it."

"That means..." He continued right where she left off, staring directly into her eyes.

"Johnny Vong knew." They said in unison. Kate fell back in her chair, mentally kicking herself for missing such a glaring truth. Now, there was absolutely no telling where Johnny Vong was- or even if he was still alive at this point. Her stomach began to feel as though it was dropping to her feet. There was only one path that would let her find the answers for that now.

"So, the next move is..." she fell quiet.

"Yeah."

They fell into a comfortable silence. Kate wasn't sure how long she sat there, mulling Brook's offer in her head, but she hadn't come any closer to making up her mind. It was something she'd definitely have to sleep on. She looked over to Castle, who at some point had laid his arm down on a haphazard stack of manila file folders that had accumulated over the course of the day, regrettably reminding her she still had a job to do. She let out a sigh, growing more and more irritated at Brooks for throwing a wrench into the gears. It was useless to dwell on it though, and no amount of paperwork to throw herself into was going to ease her worried thoughts.

"Listen, Kate," he began. "Whatever you decide to do, I'm with you all the way."

"I appreciate that, Rick, but it's your decision to make as well."

Castle was silent for a moment, then a thoughtful frown appeared. "It's not mine, it's Alexis'. I don't even know how I'm going to ask her."

Kate looked pensively at him, and somewhere inside her mind a smile was blooming. No matter how many times she got to witness it, he never ceased to amaze her. Castle's shear level of devotion to his daughter was simply staggering. Even when given an offer such as Brooks', one where either of them ran a high risk of not living to see the end of it, he still put the feelings of Alexis before his own personal safety. Granted, he acted like a sugar-fueled child sometimes. Yet, after seeing and certainly attesting to what lengths he would go to for the people he cared about, she often wondered how much of that flamboyant public persona was nothing more than a charade.

"Just tell her."

"But Brooks said..."

"Castle," she leaned closer to him and whispered. "Between you and me, I don't think we have to worry about your daughter selling secrets to the bad guys. Well, maybe Martha would... but not Alexis."

That got a chuckle out of him. "Spoken like a true Castle."

Caught off guard by his reply, Kate simply stared at him unsure of how to respond. A small part of her began to wonder about just how much of Richard Castle had rubbed off on her over the years. The other, much larger part of her had stilled her thoughts with a simple realization: maybe it wasn't such a bad thing.

"Something on your mind, detective?" he asked as he stood up and put on his coat, causing her to quickly look away.

"It's just..." she shifted in her chair, feeling a blush rise as she continued. "I thought you'd be practically dancing with joy at the chance to do something like this. You know- the guns, the gadgets, the girls."

"I won't lie, Detective." He replied, casting his eyes to his folded hands. "Becoming something akin to a secret agent is a longstanding childhood dream of mine." Suddenly, the sensation that she was watching something sacredly personal hit her when Castle's normally jovial expression softened to a tender, unfocused gaze. "But things have changed, haven't they."

Yes, she thought. Many things have changed. And as she watched him walk to the elevator, chancing to take a longer glimpse into the complexity of Richard Castle, she couldn't shake the feeling that some things still were.

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Later that night, Castle was sitting on a stool in his kitchen, his eyes absently following a dark golden liquid swirl around in his glass. Moments before, he had watched his daughter bid him a goodnight as she tiredly climbed the stairs to go to sleep. But, not before she gave him her answer.

Alexis had taken the news much better than he originally feared. However, he was certain that it would take him a while to get the image of her eyes bubbling with tears out of his mind when he told her how long the undercover operation might take. He didn't want to sugarcoat it, she deserved better than that. Their conversation was long, and he took his time to answer every single question she had. By the end of their talk though, he honestly felt as though he had more questions to figure out than he started with.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn't realize he was no longer alone until he heard the cork of a wine bottle pop and roll across the counter in front of him.

"Well, it's about time I got your attention!" Martha grumbled as she poured herself a glass. "I've been talking to you for the past three minutes with nary a peep out of you!"

Castle smiled tiredly and said, "Ah, sorry about that. How was your date with Chet?"

"He took me to see Evita. It was a simply marvelous evening..." She began to gush about all of little events of the day. He forced a smile as she carried on, even when she started singing parts of the play. He was truly happy for her, but no matter how hard he tried to use her stories as an excuse, thoughts of Rathborne and Senator Burbury would pull him right back.

"What's got you so down, Richard?" She said after a moment. "You haven't made a single witty comment yet and it's really beginning to worry me."

"It's about a case we were offered this morning."

"Oh?" Martha tilted her as she lazily stirred the glass under her nose. "It can't be that bad, can it?"

"Worse." He sighed. "I'll just say it involves plenty of danger and the possibility of being away for a while. And it's about Kate's mother."

"The poor girl," she said sympathetically. "Is she alright?"

"I'm not sure." He said honestly. Years of practice had ensured that Kate could conceal her emotions what the need arose, and this was definitely one of those times.

Sliding off the stool, he grabbed his glass of scotch and made his way to his office. With an unceremonious plop onto his chair, he leaned his head back and grumbled tiredly. A few moments passed. Then he heard the light steps of his mother clicking into the room.

"And you've talked to Alexis about it?"

He nodded before taking a sip of the drink. "She handled the news a lot better than I did."

She was silent for a moment and then she paced around the desk and laid a gentle hand on his head. "You'll figure it out, son. I've got faith in you."

"But that's the thing." He craned his face up to meet hers. "We might be going up against something that can't be solved. It's crazy- completely irrational to even consider. But I can't just walk away."

A lone eyebrow lifted on his mother's face.

"Are we still talking about the case, or are we talking a certain someone else?" She quipped.

"That's exactly what Alexis said." He turned his gaze back to his desk, giving a small shake of his head as he smiled.

"Well kiddo, I'm off to bed." Her hand retreated from his hair and she leaned over to plant a kiss on his forehead. "Just remember that acting on the irrational is sometimes the most rational thing to do."

"Was that supposed to be advice, or is it the working title for your biography?"

"Oh hush." Martha swatted his arm playfully. As she walked towards her bedroom, she called back, "Don't worry a hair on your head about us, we'll be fine. Do what your heart tells you is right, Richard."

"I will, Mom."

He watched as her figure retreated into the dim of the living room and out of sight. Castle sat his now empty glass down on the desk and turned his attention to his laptop. His fingers made a few quick flourishes over the keypad and as the only file filling his thoughts appeared on the screen, a tired smile rose up his cheeks. The name Nikki Heat dotted the manuscript, but she wasn't muddled in some harrowing chase or kneeling over the gruesome remnants of a new case. In fact, every facet of the character that made its way into canon wasn't anywhere in sight. This file wasn't meant for publication, it was for his eyes only.

The titular heroine was walking gracefully, purposefully, her long bare legs carrying her to greet her quarry with a sleepy kiss. The sound of bacon frying in a nearby pan, the scent of her shampoo filled the narrator's senses. Her slender hands were barely peeking out from the only stitch of clothing she wore- a man's dress shirt. One hand had threaded around the neck of the man her lips were fused with, the other holding a steaming mug of coffee. There was nothing extraordinary about this scene, no hail of bullets, no villainous twists, and no monsters waiting in the shadows. It was just two people finding each other in a small kitchen.

It was more than enough to cement his decision.

There was only one line of dialogue on the page, two words to be precise. It wasn't that there was a lack of words to be said between the two meeting in a tender embrace on the page before him. In all honesty, the narrator could spend his life waxing the depths of her beauty and it wouldn't be enough. Yet, the words that were there had as much power as any declaration of love because they were that simple, that ordinary, that beautiful. They were the only words there because any lover would move heaven and earth to hear them every day. As he stood up to make his way out of the office, he reminded himself that a certain detective might like hearing such a simple phrase first thing tomorrow.

_Good morning_.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-**

The day had finally arrived. Beckett called Castle before the crack of dawn and asked to meet him at the station as soon as possible. For what seemed like hours, the duo sat in the break room and talked. They shared their hopes and worries, some about the case, some not. They indulged one another with stories, some farfetched, some downright embarrassing. It was cathartic, hopeful. It was exactly what they needed to hear this morning.

Agent Brooks stepped through the threshold of Captain Montgomery's door at 10am on the dot. If he was shocked to see Beckett and Castle already in there, he didn't show it. With little fanfare, he shut the door behind him and removed his sunglasses. Kate looked on as Brooks and Montgomery exchanged pleasantries, trying desperately still her nerves.

_This is it_, she thought. _This is one of those moments._

"Have you come to a decision?" Brooks asked, looking pointedly at the pair.

Beckett glanced at Castle, who merely gave her a small smile. Closing her eyes, she willed forth the very last vivid memory she had of her mother. She was smiling at her, radiating pride at the extraordinary woman her daughter would no doubt become. It took only a moment to relive it, but that was all she needed.

_"Listen pumpkin, I can't promise everything in life will be blissfully in your control. That is a lesson that even your father is far too stubborn to learn."_

_"Just like me, huh?" Kate chuckled as she wiped away a few tears, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed she was crying this badly over a stupid boy._

_With a simple nod, her mother continued, "There are trials in life Katie-bug, and they should never be seen as obstacles or punishments- they are life in every sense of the word. They are the moments that define you, that give you strength long after they've faded." Kate let the words wash over her, happily relaxing into her mother's open arms. "When the rain comes and it seems as though it will never end, Katie, just remember that it will only make the flower grow taller. There are people out there that love you so, so much. Remember that and you will never be alone."_

Opening her eyes, she looked directly at Castle, who gave her a solemn nod. Together, they spoke in one firm voice. They gave Brooks their answer.

"We'll do it."

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**Notes**: The title of this chapter was inspired by a line in a traditional Irish lament called "Bonny Portmore". If you want to listen to the song, I highly recommend Loreena McKennitt's version. The last memory Kate recalls of her mom is a revised scene I did in a short story a long time ago, it seemed very fitting.

-edit- fixed a formatting issue.


	4. The Cardinal Sin

**Chapter 4 – The Cardinal Sin**

**- April 13, 1994 - **

Pulling off his sunglasses, a young man pushed himself into what had to be the firmest car seat he had ever felt, trying his best to loosen it up a bit more. The sigh of resignation that soon left his lips couldn't be helped -the drive had definitely gotten to him. The scenery wasn't bad at all, he thought. Everything was in bloom, everything was green and brimming with life- and after spending a small, but very unforgettable portion of his life in the insipid, oppressive solitude of a desert thousands of miles away, even the toe-curling stench wafting through his truck windows from the nearby cow pastures were a welcome experience.

Looking to his left down the long winding dirt road, he grimaced. Not a single plume of dust was visible yet, not even the slightest whisper of life was coming towards him at all. This wasn't his idea, this place wreaked of carelessness, of sudden planning. Void of any prying eyes or not, the countryside was empty for what seemed like miles; and for a man like him, he couldn't help but question why his friend chose this spot. It was open, too open considering just what was about to occur here. There was an old faded barn some four-hundred feet away hunched in a muddy dip between two hills; its doors were completely unhinged and rotting under thick brush and dead briars, the roof was in tatters as well. It was a crumbling mass, but surely it was more appropriate. Hell, neither of them was even from this part of the country. Why here? Why did it have to be here?

He opened the old rusted glove compartment with a forceful tug, its contents jostled out, falling unceremoniously to the floorboard. Through the splayed mess of folded papers, empty cigarette packs, and driver manuals, his hands blindly searched for the only thing he would probably trust today. His fingers brushed along something cold, something as familiar as breathing- a stub-nose revolver. He brought the object to his lap, feeling somewhat nostalgic. This wasn't the same piece he was issued a few years before. This one was louder, clumsier. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't his style- but neither was this day.

He began to twist a simple silver ring around on his left hand, tuning out a nauseatingly overplayed song blaring through the radio. He knew this day was going to come at some point. After experiencing the things that they did, fate wouldn't just turn the other way and let the past die. Not even twelve hours ago, he awoke to the shrill sound of his phone ringing. It was still pitch black outside. A part of him wanted to just bury his head further into the pillow and deal with it in the morning. But he was too tired, too groggy. He made the mistake of answering it anyway. A voice came to his ears that he hadn't heard since the war; since he and half of his company disappeared into the moon-lit sea of sand, north of Kuwait.

His friend said he had one last favor to ask: to be here, and come alone. And how could he refuse? They had been the best of friends, and only happenstance had forced them to go their separate ways. He trusted him implicitly, and so he agreed with little hesitation. Even though he honestly wanted ask his long-lost friend during their brief conversation how he had found him, that question could wait until they were face to face. However, he had been careful this whole time to remain a shadow, assumed dead even by his closest friends. But somehow he was finally found, and friend or not, that very mystery was enough to put him on edge.

Checking once more that every chamber had a round in it, he tucked the revolver into the top of his jeans. As he focused his attention back on the empty dirt road, and gave the tuning knob on the radio a quick twist. A new song crackled to life on the radio- one that'd already heard three times on the drive here. The young man rolled his dark brown eyes and tiredly banged his hand against the uncomfortably hard headrest. This wasn't helping at all.

He quickly turned off the ignition and stepped out of the truck. Stretching his arms for a moment, he leaned against the cab of the truck and kicked away a small rock over the dusty lot. That was when he heard the hushed droning of engines in the distance. Bounding over the hill, a red vehicle appeared, kicking up a cloud of dirt in its wake. Irritation quickly dissolved to confusion when some ways behind the tiny red car, another appeared- then two more. One by one, a steady line of vehicles emerged out of the billowed fog of dirt, strung together in a long procession, rapidly descending on him.

_What the hell…_

A soldier never forgot how it felt to be caught in an ambush- the sinking tug of adrenaline, time slowing to echoes of heartbeats, anticipation plying down feet that more and more felt like roots fettered to earth instead of a means of escape. The dilation of every nerve, every basic sense all amassing towards one single overpowering thought- _run_.

He took a step back, shifting his stance. The revolver was already out of its hiding spot, clenched tightly in his hand. His other hand shot towards the truck's door handle and yanked it open. _Wait_, he thought just as he was about to jump in. Looking once more to the road, he slowly slammed the door shut and let out a sigh. He couldn't run. There was no way to get out of this place unless it was straight through them. So he turned towards the oncoming cars, setting his jaw to a grim frown. Was this it? Was this just some cheap set-up?

They drove onto the gravel-filled lot, fanning out to either side, flanking one another and coming to a stop around him in a semi-circle. As if on cue, all of the vehicles shut down, and the country grew silent. For a moment, he allowed himself to accept that he had been duped, betrayed. His grip tightened around the gun, his focus darted from car to car, looking for the first sign of movement to aim at.

But then, things took a very strange turn.

All at once, drivers and burly guards stepped out of each car- dozens of them- seemingly oblivious to the weapon he held in his hand, oblivious to him all together. Under their black suit jackets, his eyes trained on the tell-tale impressions of guns hiding underneath. Yet, they made no move to reach for them- none of them seemed to even acknowledge his presence at all. Instead, each of them scurried to let out other occupants. Figures began to emerge, and more questions exploded into his riddled thoughts.

He recognized nearly all of them- faces that were plastered on a nightly basis on the news, faces that were synonymous with power, industry, and wealth. They congregated together some ways in front of him, smiling and shaking one another's hands. There laughs were haughty, their smiles were ever as postured and aggrandizing as they came across on television. Then a familiar mop of shaggy brown hair caught his eye, languidly stepping out from the small red car and walking straight towards him. He was in a simple grey shirt and jeans, and though his passive expression would have done any army officer proud, he still stuck out like a sore thumb among the crowd of suits and uniforms.

The anger that he felt once he saw his old friend smile at him was enough to tempt the gun in his hand to smile back. This wasn't the plan. He told him how dangerous even meeting would be, but his friend laughed it off- don't worry, he said. It's safe, he assured.

The fucking liar.

"Wow, you still look the same- haven't changed at all." His friend laughed as he came to a stop in front of him.

"What is this, Evan?" he spat back, clearly not in the mood for formalities.

"It's good to see you too, man." His friend paused for a moment. Seemingly unphased of any danger, he walked towards him. His friend smirked as he glanced down to the gun and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Want to put that Belly Buster away?"

"Why should I? This isn't exactly what you told me to expect on the phone!" He looked down to the hand on his shoulder for a moment and shrugged him off. "Why the hell are all these people here?"

"Would you have come if he told you that there would be others?" At once, his gut felt like it turned to lead the instant he heard someone else, somewhere behind Evan speak up. He knew that voice, he knew it all too well. It was practically the same one his conscience would assume any time he made a mistake.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the young man roared, his eyes flashing wildly over the group as he was unable to pinpoint the source of that voice.

"Seriously Evan," he looked impatiently over to his friend, his grip on the revolver tightened. "What the fuck is going on?"

"You may not know _what _is going on; in fact, I'd imagine you would not understand if I told you now anyway." The gruff voice spoke up again from behind his friend. "However, I think the more important question to ask is _why_. And I think you already know the answer to that, young man."

A weathered looking man stepped forward from the mass of people, holding his hands up in a placating manner. "I do apologize for the circumstance of this meeting. But in our defense, I must admit that you are a very hard man to track down. Mr. Evan White here was kind enough to inform me that he had finally found you some weeks ago."

God, it was him alright. His hair was a little greyer than he remembered; a few more wrinkles marred his cheeks. But it was him, from the riddle-laden answers, even down to the same air of understated power he'd always radiated.

"Did it cross your mind that I was under the radar for a reason?" He hissed, glaring at his supposed friend.

"Do not blame Evan, young man. He is a loyal friend." The old man said. "He was merely playing his part."

"Under any other circumstance, or any other life, we would have been blissfully comfortable with each others destiny. You, a ghost, and I, a man doomed to be haunted by you. Yet, I find myself curious to know why. I know that you have become an instrument of death."

He did not reply, he didn't want to say a word. So the old man continued. "We've come to learn that you possess a very enviable set of skills. You have even employed these skills to liberate the vestiges of power- and life- from some of my colleagues."

"Cut the bullshit, Dad."

He snapped at his father. His eyes glanced to the menacing looking guards still standing idly by the car as he continued. "If you know what I do and what I'm capable of, then there are only two reasons you are here with your armed buddies: either you're here to kill me or recruit me."

His father sighed loudly. "I know I probably could have treated your situation a little better, and for that I'm deeply sorry and I intend to make it up to you. We… I am here concerning your last mission."

His eyes narrowed at his father. "What of it?"

"What if I told you that it is the exact reason that I am here? What if I told you that I need your help?"

"It would be the first time in either of our lives if you did. And what about all of your friends you brought along with you? Am I helping them too?"

"We are people of… conviction." The old man gestured to the others behind him, his hand gliding along smoothly along the rows of strangers as though he were showman coaxing him to look behind a lifting curtain. "We merely share _agreeable_ views on the world."

"Though you may think that what you saw was a nightmare, a pivotal moment born through a string of coincidence, I disagree. I and everyone here agree that it was divine providence. All I'm asking for is for you to let me in, let me show you what we have to offer. We can be the family we were meant to be."

"Look, I know that you remember what happened." Evan said after a moment of silence. "And I know that it changed your life just as it changed mine. I know you don't understand how this could possibly change anything, but I'm asking you as a friend, give this a chance."

He stared at Evan for a moment, weighing his words. He couldn't deny that he was right.

"I'm listening." He said shortly, trying not to look his father in the eyes.

"And that is all I ask." His father smiled warmly. "Please, join me and I will introduce you to my friends."

"Alright," he said uncertainly and walked with his father into the welcoming group. "My name is-"

"Do not say your name. It does not matter now to any of us." His father's eyes grew stern. "In due time should you merit a name, we will give you one."

The next few minutes passed in a surreal stupor for the young man as his father jovially patted him on the back, proudly waxing stories of his son's childhood to all of them. It was just like old times and that struck him deeper than what he'd just agreed to. He had just finished shaking the hand of a well-decorated general when there was a gentle cough to his right.

"So, it's true then?" a smaller, balding man with glasses, who had spent most of the meeting apprehensively looking from person to person, stepped forward with his hands in his pockets. "What Coonan said was true? We're really going to do this?"

"If you mean Dick Coonan, then I honestly couldn't tell you. Are you a friend of my father?"

"Oh, my apologies." The spectacled man quickly extended his hand. "I'm Alvin-"

"Coonan was telling the truth, Mr. Burbury." The old man cut him off. "And so is our newest friend." He made a motion to two guards by the Cadillac. "Gentlemen, however hopeful this moment feels to each of you, make no mistake: this will be a long road we all must travel together. That's why I would like to introduce you all to the person who will be assisting us in this journey."

A figure slowly emerged from the same Escalade the old man emerged from, holding an old black leather doctor's bag firmly in his grasp. The man was at the very least in his thirties, dressed haphazardly in a pair of dirty khaki's, wearing a strange looking symbol dangling from a necklace onto a hastily button-up dress shirt, walking to the group with a curious smile. His skin was a sickly pallor, pale and nearly porcelain white. His eyes reeked of unrepentant knowledge, of an ineludible smugness bordering on narcissism.

Of all the people standing before him- all of the figureheads of clout and power- this strange looking man was the only one that looked entirely out of his element. He wasn't military by any standard- no. In this empty place, this unusual gathering, he certainly wasn't what he expected to see here, surrounded by figureheads of political dynasties and military giants. He exuded a darker kind of power. A scientist to be sure, he thought, but perhaps a holy man as well.

The strange man came to a stop in the center of the group, casually placing the leather bag on the ground. He knelt down and unzipped the bag.

"The man in front of your son is Evan White, yes?" the man asked, pushing up a pair of thick black glasses on his nose as he dug around in the bag searching for something. He saw his father reply with a curt nod.

"Excellent. Tell me Mr. White, did you ever play Hide and Seek as a child?" the man asked, his eyes still searching over the contents of his bag.

"Pardon?" Evan turned to him; confusion marred his brows at the question.

"Hide and Seek." He repeated, his glasses slipping down his wiry nose as he craned even further towards the wide open container. "Did you play it?"

"Well… yeah. So?"

"And do you consider the young man in front of you a friend, Mr. White?"

Evan glanced to him just for a second and gave a shrug. "Um, yeah?"

"Excellent," the man declared, his eyes never leaving the contents of his bag. "I was wondering- do you recall what the biggest rule is among those who are chosen to hide?"

Evan was silent for a moment.

"I don't understand." He finally said with an uneasy smile.

"What is the cardinal sin, if you will, for the hidden?" the strange man explained. "What should a player who has already been found by the seeker never do, under any circumstance?"

"I don't know." His friend merely shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on the unkempt man, chuckling nervously.

"Ah!" The bespectacled man exclaimed, apparently finding what he'd been looking for. The young man's intuitive senses should have known that something was wrong, but they never kicked in. Standing beside his father, he noticed members of the group silently backing away. The rational side of him figured that he was merely going to show the group something important, but that moment, what he lifted from his bag was the last thing he expected. Alarm must have been evident in the young man's eyes, for he saw a chilling smile stretch along the man's cheeks, twisting into the shadows of his thick black frames. He stood back to his full height, raising one arm straight towards Evan's back.

The blast from the massive gun in his hand filled the young man's ears as he watched a part of Evan's chest disappear in a spray of blood. The force of the bullet threw Evan to the ground; his eyes stilled, fixed ahead with the same expression of confusion. The man in glasses casually came closer and stood over Evan's body.

"You shouldn't tell on your friends, Mr. White." The strange man fired one more round into Evan's lifeless body then gave a satisfied nod. He turned around, giving a pointed look at the group. "Wouldn't you agree everyone?"

Stunned to silence, the young man looked to his father for some sort of explanation. Instead, he watched in shock as his father gave a grateful nod to the strange man, who walked back over to his bag and gently tucked the still smoking gun back inside. It was in that moment that he realized whatever his father had planned; there was no turning away from it, and absolutely no room for error.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." His father turned to the group with a pleasant smile. "Now that we're all on the same page, shall we begin?"

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AN: As you can see, this chapter is one giant flashback, and it fleshes out some things that will play a huge part in the rest of the story. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Next chapter will be up tomorrow!


	5. The Die is Cast

**AN: **Thank you for the reviews and alerts! As my way of saying thanks and keep them coming, I will do my best to keep these updates coming daily. Enjoy!

**Chapter 5 – The Die is Cast**

_We'll do it._ Those three simple words swirled in Castle's mind as he leveled the most determined look he could muster to Brooks.

The skeptical frown remained on the agent, his grey eyes veering between Beckett and the author.

"Very well then, these are for both of you." Agent Brooks gave a small nod and reached into his jacket. A large folded white envelope appeared in his hand, simple and non-descript except for a small curious bulge. He held it out and Beckett slowly reached for it from her chair. As she sat back, her eyes narrowed as she hooked a finger under a loosened corner. Castle leaned over; looking curiously down to Beckett's lap as she slowly peeled apart its seal. Staving a nervous gulp, there was a creeping pang of realization in his mind on what exactly he was about to embark on.

Brooks began to talk, droning on about something Castle knew he should probably be intently paying attention to, but whatever the agent was saying seemed to fade to thrumming static noise when Beckett flipped open the lip of the envelope. What fell into her lap was cliché to any mystery writer worth their salt, and it shouldn't have surprised him. But as his eyes traced the words 'Departure', 'Arrival' and 'DCA- Ronald Reagan National Airport', a part of him had to relent that things like this were cliché for a reason.

"Plane tickets, sir?" Beckett asked as she held them up.

Brooks only replied with a motion of his hands back to the envelope. Beckett tipped the envelope over and a small silver key with a painted blue handle fell out. Holding up the key with two fingers, she seemed to study something written into the blue paint.

"A safety deposit box key." Beckett concluded with nary a trace of doubt. Castle's mind began to swirl with images of secret meetings and sandy beaches, hidden guns and long lost mysteries waiting to be uncovered- this was going to be so much more fun that he thought.

"So when do we leave?" Castle asked with a gleeful smile, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

"This is not exactly what you're thinking." Brooks frowned and walked over to a seat near the window and leaned onto its armrest. "Those tickets and what that key goes to are only to be used for emergencies only."

"So…" Castle paused as the stream of fanciful visions of car chases through the streets of Paris and clandestine meetings in the moonlit alleys of Prague instantly and woefully crumbled to dust. Taking in the agent's admission, he tried to formulate his thoughts. "Our part in this will keep us in New York?"

"Oh, make no mistake Mr. Castle; you will be going to wherever this investigation may lead you. The tickets you are holding are specially coded to alert us when they are used- a last line of defense, if you will. Anywhere else you are required to go will be fully paid for by us."

"Anywhere?" Beckett repeated, her usual reserved demeanor vanished. She was not hiding her surprise at all.

"Yes, no questions asked, absolutely free and for as long as it may be required."

"But I don't understand, sir." She frowned, her scrutinizing eyes moved back to the tiny key. "Why so much just for us?"

"Because Senator Burbury made it that way." He stated plainly. "I must impress upon you how important it is that you and Mr. Castle succeed, Detective Beckett. Whatever Paul Krashinko and Mr. Burbury were working on was enough to not only have them killed, but also have Rathborne's existence irrevocably out in the open. That puts them in a precarious position-"

"-that will force them to speed up what ever Krashinko was working on." Montgomery interrupted.

"Precisely, Captain Montgomery. So, if you two are the keys to stopping it, then any sum of money and assistance is unquestionably at your fingertips."

"Now hold on, Agent Brooks." Montgomery said, leaning over his desk. "Something isn't adding up and I want this answered right now before we go any further."

The agent crossed his arms. "Fire away."

The captain took a deep breath and began to pace around his chair. "When you first came here, you were pretty damned picky with the information you gave us. You told us two things: one, Burbury was a member of Rathborne; and two, something he had in his desk clued you in on it. So-" he paused, clearly expected to Brooks to reply. "What was it?"

"Simply put, it was a document with Dick Coonan's name on it."

"Literally?" Something in Beckett's voice drew Castle's attention, a small hitch subtly scratching under the surface of her interrogative tone. It was something he'd quietly noticed over time, a relatively innocuous quirk of hers that he doubted anyone else knew of. And it only surfaced when she did not believe someone.

"Yes, and every large monetary transaction involving the late Senator and Coonan's Afghan foundation since 1995. Some were marked over, but our labs were able to conclude that they were made from Senator Burbury himself." Brooks replied.

_Strange_, Castle mused. Politicians gave to charities all the time. To use that piece of evidence as proof that a Senator was in league with a crime syndicate was circumstantial at best. Could that document really be that conclusive?

"May we see that document? An unaltered copy, that is." Beckett inquired politely. Castle smiled; she must have been thinking the same thing that he did.

"Of course." Brooks pulled out a phone and quickly typed a message. "A copy should be arriving to your doorstep within the week, Mr. Castle."

_Okay, that was smooth,_ the writer inside him squealed. He promptly felt Beckett's eyes burning holes in him as her foot not so subtly delivered a quick blow to his shin. Cringing away, he quickly reminded himself to ask her later if he said that out loud.

He glanced over to see Beckett's attention drawing back to the agent.

"Where were the bodies found?" she asked.

Brooks frowned for a moment. "At the Senator's home. You will be receiving our preliminary report, so let's just focus on getting you two-"

"Wait, we're not visiting the crime scene?" Beckett interrupted with no small measure of confusion lacing her voice. She quickly stuffed the envelope into her jacket pocket and crossed her arms. "

Without a word, Brooks paced over to a chair tucked in the far corner of the room. Lying in its seat, Castle noticed a black leather briefcase and a newspaper on top of it. The agent grabbed the paper, tucked it under his arm, and flipped open the briefcase's flap. He immediately pulled out a thin manila folder and grabbed the paper from under his arm.

"This should probably answer your question, Detective." Brooks said as he returned to his spot by the desk. He held up the paper, offering her to take it.

The moment it was in Beckett's hands, she turned it to its front page. Castle peered over her shoulder. When the headline met his eyes, he frowned.

_**U.S. Senator Slain In Home Invasion**_

His eyes scanned the rest of the article in a flash. There was no mention of the other victim…

"You're leaving Krashinko's murder out of the papers?" Beckett noted, echoing his thoughts.

"I'm sure you can understand why, Detective Beckett." He opened the large manila folder, and one by one, he began to lay pictures down on the desk. "Due to the sensitivity of his area of expertise, letting the world know that a U.S. Senator was found dead with a biological weapons engineer would be as incendiary as if they found him making the warheads themselves. Mr. Krashinko's death will be reported tomorrow in a different context."

Castle followed Beckett to the edge of the desk. The pictures were the likes of ones he'd seen hundreds of times before- numbered yellow tags by bloodstains and dusted prints, entirely too focused snapshots of an unmoving body, every square inch of a victim's final resting place in vivid detail.

"Those are your copies of the scene." He heard Brooks say. "Do not lose them."

"So how do you know it wasn't just a hit job? Maybe it was just a case of bad blood between members of Rathborne, and Burbury was the losing side." Beckett inquired, tapping a lone finger on the picture of Burbury crumpled against a wall.

"As of this moment, we are not ruling anything out, including that."

"One more question," Montgomery said after a moment of silence. "You realize that Castle is a civilian, yes? From what you're describing, this sounds like it's a no holds barred- anything goes as long as we win- kind of thing. Do you think it's a good idea to put him in the thick of it all?"

"When I said you have the backing of every agency of the United States government, I wasn't, how would you put it…" he paused and turned his stony gaze to Castle. "Ah yes, waxing poetic. Detective Beckett and Mr. Castle will have an unconditional license to protect themselves, even if by means of eliminating imminent threats."

"A license to kill? Seriously?" Castle gawked, unable to contain his shock. "I completely understand wanting us for an undercover job, but how bad can it possibly be?"

"Mr. Castle, need I remind you that the President ordered for this joint taskforce to be assembled?" The agent drawled.

"Point taken." He replied, and that was honestly enough for him. An order coming down from the highest office in the land only meant one thing: they were viewing Rathborne as domestic terrorists and pursuing them accordingly.

Conversation among Brooks and Montgomery turned to more technical matters- paperwork and proper documentation- so naturally, Castle decided to tune them out and began to think about everything they have went over so far. Staring at the ticket in his hand, a thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Agent Brooks," he said and looked to the dour man, his voice tinged with worry. "How are we supposed to go undercover anyway? I mean, well… I honestly don't like to brag," he began, though momentarily taken aback when he heard Beckett give a very unfeminine snort at his admission. Nevertheless, he continued, "but don't you think my name alone paints a big enough target over our heads?"

"That's exactly what we're hoping for, Mr. Castle."

"Pardon?" Castle asked, wondering if he heard the agent correctly.

"You are an affluent, incredibly connected individual-" Brooks stated pointedly. "-and if Coonan and Burbury are any indication- that is exactly the type of people Rathborne take under their wing. Just so in case they happen to sniff out your tracks during the investigation, by you having a very public, high profile lifestyle, they will merely just assume that you're doing what you always do and that you're at most just curious about their organization. Honestly, we couldn't ask for a better operative for this."

"And what about Ka… Detective Beckett? I mean they did interview her in Cosmo and she was the one that brought down Coonan." He looked over to her, silently apologizing for that fiasco. Beckett seemed to notice and gave him a reassuring smile.

"You're right, Castle, but they did not include a picture of me in it per my request." She replied. "All they could know about me is my name.

"And the information we released to the press about Coonan was only that he was apprehended by officers in suspicion of drug trafficking." Montgomery added.

"And unless they have some magical access to our accident records, all I'll have to do it just take an alias and they'll be none the wiser." Beckett finished.

"So we'll need a cover then, won't we?" Castle said as glanced over to Beckett. "I mean, we can't just leave here even for days on end and not raise some eyebrows."

"We have that covered for you already." The agent nodded towards them. "You and Detective Beckett will first be taking a well deserved break together in Hawaii-

The sound of Captain Montgomery's hearty laugh broke whatever Brooks was about to say off. Castle tried his best to hide a grin and continued to pace around when he noticed a blush positively radiating on Beckett's cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Agent Brooks," Montgomery chuckled a moment more. "That would be like tossing fresh meat to a pack of wolves to Detectives Esposito and Ryan. You want everybody they know to be off there backs, but that kind of juicy information would only send them over the moon."

"Then I'll leave it to you to come up with something more suitable." Brooks said flatly. The office grew silent for what seemed like the first time since Brooks' arrival.

"Naked Heat." Beckett suddenly said, causing Castle look her way. "What about the movie they're making of it?"

"They're still casting a few roles." Castle replied.

"Perfect!" Montgomery exclaimed. "That'll kill two birds with one stone. Gives me a good reason to look really pissed off when I tell your boys they'll be flying solo for a while."

"What is going to happen with the Michael Franks case?" Castle asked as Brooks stood up and walked to the door.

"That will be taken care of the moment you leave this office."

"Well, if that's our story, I have one tiny little suggestion." Castle called to the agent just as he reached for the door handle. "If you are here to apparently garner our help with the next movie, then as a producer, it's your moral obligation to have the most ridiculous smile plastered to your face no matter the occasion, Agent Brooks. It will definitely lend credence to this story."

Brooks' mouth twitched then fell back into its stony frown.

"I will do my best."

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Esposito's eyes swiveled back to the closed blinds of Montgomery's office, observing three silhouettes pacing back and forth around the room. They had been in there most of the morning with the captain and some sharp dressed guy.

_Man, that girl needs a vacation_, he mused. For the life of him, he couldn't remember a single moment since meeting her that she took a break. A part of him respected her immensely for that. She was a machine that never showed signs of stopping. And on top of being an incredible detective, her resolve alone was more than enough to make him want to perform to this best of his ability. But, everybody had their limits.

If he were honest, he was really hoping Castle was going to be the one to get her to rest from time to time, but even as charming as the writer was, he still couldn't seem to stop her at all. She needed to let loose, break her habits like her fictitious counterpart, Nikki Heat. Then again, it was Beckett, and all that happening was about as likely as Pearlmutter joining a metal band.

Karpowski came up to his desk and tipped her mug of coffee at them. "Morning, boys."

"Karpowski," they replied at the same time. Esposito once again felt his nerves begin to quake as his eyes immediately trained to the mug of steaming hot pain sloshing around in her hand.

"Any idea what they're up to in there?" Karpowski motioned to the captain's office.

Esposito looked at Karpowski for a moment, surprised at her unusual curiosity. "No idea on that one. Me and Ryan got a bet going that Beckett finally beat up Castle and that's his lawyer in there with them."

"Oh yeah?" she said and took a sip from her mug.

"Yep." Ryan piped in.

"Those two have got the biggest cases of denial I've ever seen in my life. They just need to get it over with and start making babies." Esposito couldn't help the blush creep up on his cheeks. Karpowski certainly never held anything back.

"We got a bet on that too…" Ryan whispered conspiratorially.

Beckett and Castle emerged from the office following the strict looking middle-aged man who was looking a bit flustered. And a very angry looking Montgomery stormed a few paces out of his office.

"Karpowski," Montgomery shouted, motioning for her. "You are now lead investigator for the foreseeable future. Make me proud." He said and promptly stormed back into his office.

Ryan and Esposito immediately looked to each other completely surprised. Not wasting another moment, they slinked over to the captain's open door.

"Hey Captain, how are you this fine morning?"

Montgomery grumbled something unintelligible as he rifled through a thick stack of papers.

"So, Captain…" Ryan piped up. "What was that all about?" He asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Montgomery paused for a moment, and then his grumbling turned to a series of growls and curses. Esposito strained his ears, but it was no use- through the gibberish, all he caught was 'Castle', 'Beckett', 'movie' and 'where's my damn scotch'.

"Sorry, what was that?" Esposito took a risk and pressed. He had some bets to win, after all.

"Beckett has decided to take some time off and Mr. Hollywood Producer wanted them on the first flight… wait, what the hell am I doing? Jesus, don't you two have some bad guys to catch?"

Ryan discretely passed him a twenty dollar bill right before they retreated from the office.

Okay, Esposito thought as he went back to his desk, watching Beckett and Castle retreat into the elevator- maybe she had a little Nikki Heat in her after all.

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AN: This was a pretty fun chapter to write. I gotta say, Esposito and Ryan are a blast to write lines for. One more thing before I forget- if you guys could, please tell me your thoughts on the writing style and tone of chapter 4, The Cardinal Sin. The way I set about writing it is a sizeable departure from my usual narrative and I would really love to hear if you guys thought it worked well or not. Anyway, thanks for checking out the story! The next chapter will be up tomorrow afternoon!


	6. Grace Under Pressure

**Chapter 6 – Grace Under Pressure**

**- 2 Days Later -**

A foggy spring night had fallen on the city, the denizens of the 12th precinct Homicide Division had gone home for the night, for the most part. There were still smatterings of late-shift cops and the occasional passers-by making their way to hold-up. The last couple of detectives had just entered the elevator to respond to a request down in Robbery. However, for the two sets of eyes peering from the stairwell leading to the bullpen, it was their best moment to strike- it was more than enough of a window.

Slinking out into the dimly lit room, their eyes glanced around from nook to hallway, their nerves on end, half expecting to be caught at any moment. The woman's smoky brown eyes landed on her computer, and she deftly maneuvered around the darkened room, tip-toeing around the gloomy edges of desks and trash cans with precisioned grace.

As for the man trailing swiftly behind her, he wasn't so lucky. Her head spun around when she heard a very loud thud and a quick intake of breath- then the distinctive sound of him groaning in agony.

"Castle!" she hissed, squinting into the dark room to see where his tall silhouette was. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Breaking my ankle?" he whispered back as he limped over to her and propped himself on her desk. "You know, I'm really glad Montgomery made sure it was going to be clear, but did he really have to shut off the lights?"

"Why Castle, I figured you'd be a pro at moving around in the dark." She whispered, grinning to herself as watched the computer boot up. He must be getting pretty tired if that was the best comeback he had.

"Only if something soft is waiting for me to land on, Detective."

"Like what, Castle? Jell-O?" she quipped.

"If that's what you're in to, Detective, then I am certainly willing to try it." The words rolled off his tongue rumbling low, huskily, and seemed to travel straight down every square inch of her spine. _Now that was better._

She quickly turned her head towards the captain's office trying her to hide her rising blush.

"What," he whispered, looking towards the same direction. "Do you hear something?"

"Oh," she stuttered, "I, uh, thought I saw something move over there."

"Remind me again- why are we sneaking into your workplace?"

"Maybe because this entire thing would be blown if we're seen here? Maybe because everyone thinks we're in California right now?" She replied tiredly.

"Oh how I wish we were- the sun, the sand… you in a crimson red bikini…"

"Focus, Castle…"

She could practically feel him smirking beside her. Choosing to ignore him, she quickly typed in her password.

"So, where do we start?" he whispered.

"Well, the only two affiliations we know of that were members of Rathborne are dead." Beckett's fingers began tapping away on the keyboard. "And whatever they knew went with them. So…"

"Vong is our only living lead?" He supplied.

Beckett nodded. "I'll pull up his file."

Castle nodded and limped away towards the hall to the holding cells. He craned around its corner, and after a moment, he held up his thumb. Satisfied, Becket drew her attention back to the now loaded file of Johnny Vong. Her eyes quickly scanned through the basic information and his rap sheet. She scrolled down, trying to find anything that would be relevant; but then, something caught her eye and she quickly backtracked and reread a certain line. Her eyes widened for a moment, before a very extreme urge to shoot something filled her to the brim.

"I can't believe- what in the hell were they…" she was growling incoherently.

"Unbelievable!" she cursed, perhaps too loudly, since Castle immediately whipped around looking terribly startled.

"What is it?" Castle's whisper was urgent and closer. He cautiously stepped back into view, trying to maneuver around to see the monitor.

A dull buzz unexpectedly bloomed once again along the base of her neck; his question took a little while longer to register, for she suddenly became acutely aware that his chest was pressing against her back as he leaned closer. What unnerved her even more was that somehow was more than enough to distract her even in a precarious situation like this.

"Kate," she felt him nudge her. "What's wrong?"

"His… um, charges were dropped by the Assistant District Attorney. Vong is free."

"What? When?"

"Four days ago- something tells me someone wanted him out." She mused. "Only God knows where Vong could be now."

"Does it say anything else?" He pressed closer, tighter against her positively oblivious to the flow of nerve-igniting shockwaves he was causing- and seemingly all of her normally unwavering level of concentration left her- _What the hell is going on with me?_

Suddenly the loud ring of the elevator sounded throughout the room. Her eyes glanced over to the front lobby and saw the tiny white numbers above one of the elevator doors steadily climbing.

_Damnit,_ she mentally cursed, her senses reverting to some medium of normalcy. "We've got to go, but I need to just..." She quickly grabbed a small note pad and jotted down a few things had caught her eye from the file.

"Hurry Kate," Castle hissed sharply. "Hurry!"

"Got it." She tore the single piece of paper away, stuffing it into her jacket. She moved to reach for the power switch to the computer, but one of Castle's hands beat her to it. Just then, a tiny sliver of the elevator's interior light heralded they were about to have company. The doors began to slowly slide open.

She slipped away from the desk and back towards the stairs, feeling a strange thrum of absence pulse along her back. Trying her best to ignore the sensation, she grabbed Castle by the arm and led him back to the safety of the stairwell.

Once outside the precinct, they dashed towards a black sedan nestled under a flickering yellow light in the furthest corner of the station's parking garage. Castle fell into the passenger's seat gasping for breath just as she slipped the keys in the ignition. She quickly turned on the car and slapped the gear shift lever to reverse. The car barreled out of the parking garage, disappearing into the thickly misted, empty road.

Minutes later, she glanced to the rearview mirror still feeling a bit taken back at what they just had to do. This wasn't going to be a picnic by any standards, and there was a nagging voice in her thoughts gently reminding her that they were probably going to be doing things much, much worse. The cop in her wanted things to be by the book, no questions asked, no margin for bending the rules. But that was where the conflict came, prickling away at her conscience- what were the rules for this? Was it going to be like the captain said: a no holds barred, anything to win sort of thing? More and more as they drove through the slumbering city, those questions troubling her only grew in volume.

Sneaking into where she worked was innocent enough, since it was just a simple collection of evidence they needed. Yet she found herself on edge, nervously glancing to the rear view mirror time and time again as though she were nothing more than a common criminal being pursued. When she accepted to do this, she wasn't under the spell of any flowery illusion that some things she so ardently believed in would remain true throughout this mission. She knew there would have to be compromise; that they would undoubtedly face choices that neither of them liked. But now she was beginning to wonder just how many times that would be happening.

"Where are we going?" Castle asked; his voice still somewhat hoarse.

"We're going to pay a visit to the Assistant D.A."

"This is going to be so much fun." Castle said, barely containing his excitement.

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The note barely looked legible. The letters were disjointed, broken- but it was the best he could write considering the situation- there was no way his hands were going to stop trembling any time soon. He folded the letter and quickly slid it under the bed's pillow. The small man's eyes grew wide when a pair of bright headlights blared through the shoddy stained curtains, illuminating him and the miniscule motel room completely.

_Oh God, I'm a dead man._

He stumbled away in terror, watching a massive silhouette grow larger, closer and closer until it disappeared behind his front door. He wasn't naïve, he knew they were coming, and ironically, he couldn't talk his way out of it this time. The door handle rattled from side to side- he quietly opened up the door adjoining to the other room. He had to get out of here, and he had to get as far away from that note as he possibly could.

His life was forfeit now no mater how far he ran; his final thought before fleeing to the other room and sneaking to his car was that he only hoped that note would fall into the right hands.

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Beckett sighed and let the forced smile she had to don for the past hour and a half slide away from her face the moment the office door of the Assistant D.A. slammed shut. She had to hand it to the guy; he was incredibly hard to crack.

"_Just tell me," she repeated for the third time. "Who got to you, Decker?"_

_Assistant D.A. Marvin Decker, renowned within the precinct as a brash young bull with an ego the size of Manhattan, simply continued to recline in his leather chair and distractedly moved around a few items on his desk. _

"_What are you talking about detective?" he drawled tiredly. "I'm missing quite a few very important meetings with some very important people because of this."_

"_We've been over this one-hundred times now, Decker. Cut the bullshit as I have absolutely no time to indulge you." She leaned over his desk menacingly. "Vong did something your very own boss has vowed to eliminate. His crusade against drug trafficking is bordering on fanaticism. Do you honestly expect me to think that he let Johnny Vong go on good behavior or something? Are you that naïve?"_

_He flinched- finally he was beginning to break. "I- you're mistaken detective."_

"_Am I?" she replied. "Well let me run what I'm thinking by you and tell me if I'm still barking up the wrong tree."_

_She paused a moment, coolly relaxing into this familiar game._

"_Vong was a drug peddler of the highest order and he would be one hell of a trophy to put on any lawyer's mantle. And given your reputation for shameless ambition, there are only two reasons you would drop his charges: either your boss told you to release him or he never knew about it."_

"_Now wait a-" he scrambled to his feet, trying rather feebly to look affronted._

"_I take it the second option was the right one then, huh?" she goaded and stood back up. Granted she was going all on a hunch, but the very moment she saw Vong had been released, corruption was the only thing that came to mind. "So what happened? Did you decide a lawyer's salary just wasn't enough? Were you not climbing the political ladders quick enough for your lofty ambitions? The Vong case must have really caught you off guard; the probable clout the man pulled to run an operation like he did must have been monumental. And that was when you decided that Vong must be protected from somewhere much, much higher than your pay-grade would ever let you broach. So you did the only thing you knew- you cut him a deal." She concluded with a growl, slamming a fist onto his desk._

"_Detective-"_

"_You cut him a deal, didn't you? You would give him his freedom for a little slice of the pie. All you had to do was slip away the charges, and presto, you had connections you couldn't possibly dream of just a day before." She finished, absently realizing how much she had just sounded like Castle._

"_No!" he shouted. "I swear I didn't. But I can't tell you any more than that."_

"_Why not?" she pressed, raising her voice._

_He stayed silent, nervously tapping his fingers on the desk._

"_Tell me where Vong is, Decker, and I'll make sure the FBI-"_

"_Okay, look…" he held up his hand in a surrendering gesture. "I'm not one of Vong's people. Hell, I never even knew of the guy before four days ago. The day the Vong case landed on my desk, Tricia, my secretary told me a man was on the phone and wanted to speak to me. Didn't give his name, didn't give any sort of information about why he was calling to her other than it pertained to Vong."_

"_Where?" she pressed._

"_Savannah, okay?" he gave a heavy sigh. "He said he was going to Savannah, Georgia. Are you happy now?"_

"_I will be in about five minutes." she said just before she dialed Captain Montgomery's number._

Stepping back outside into the damp spring air, she smiled as she saw her car across the street with a single individual in its passenger's seat. Even from here, Castle looked fit to burst with boredom. She stood there a moment looking at his tiny silhouette jostling around in the car. While she did feel kind of bad about making him stay while she questioned Marvin Decker, there was something else she desperately hoped to be alone when she thought about. Throughout the entire morning, the gentle warmth of his body pressing against her never strayed far from her thoughts. And even now, it showed no signs of stopping.

She wasn't sure what to make of it. How could just a mere touch literally shut down her brain- heck, they'd been the best of friends for a few years now and they had hugged plenty of times and she never… _wait_. Had they hugged? Just once? The harder she thought, she was certain they haven't even shared a simple hug. Well maybe that was the reason then, she mused. Maybe it was the unexpectedness mixed with the adrenaline. What other reason could there be, she wondered as she walked to the car. Sure, they have had some really intense moments, they had confided in each other things others would never know. And there had always seemed to be a connection edging beyond mere chemistry between friends that they shared...

She shook her head as though to clear her thoughts as she opened the car door. It was nothing more than an unexpected contact, nothing more. It couldn't be any more thanthat. _Could it_…?

"Find anything out?" Castle looked over to her with wide eyes as she sat down and started up the engine.

"How do you like very humid weather this time of the year?" she simply smiled at his growing look of confusion and began driving to the nearest airport.

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AN: Since the day my cousin decided to delete this story as a prank, it has gone from around 2,000 hits on the day of an update to a little over 500. I'm posting this chapter a little earlier than usual in the hope that most of the folks that think this story is still gone will see it. Please review!

-edit: apparently the site wasn't updating properly and quite a few folks were unable to access the new chapter. I'm reposting this so hopefully that fixed it.


	7. Dead On Arrival

Chapter 7 – Dead On Arrival

Rubbing her eyes for a moment, Beckett quietly closed her phone and slipped it back into her jacket pocket. Spotting a glimpse of Castle, who was drumming his fingers on a small luggage bag in his lap, she tiredly made her way through the bustle of travelers in the lobby and sat a small duffel bag down beside to him.

"That was Montgomery," she said. "Apparently Decker is letting most of the story out now. He said the man who called him only asked that Vong be released and the charges on him dropped completely."

Castle looked over to her and patted the plushy blue seat beside him. "Do we have a timeline now?"

Beckett responded with a slow release of breath. "The call happened six days ago- Vong was officially released four days ago."

"The day before Burbury was murdered." Castle paused thoughtfully. "What is Decker not saying then?"

"He still won't say how the man coerced him," she replied as she unceremoniously plopped down in the seat. "But at this point it's a given it was no small threat."

Castle nodded. "The question now becomes what the threat actually was."

The pair fell into a comfortable silence. Kate looked down to her watch through heavy eyes. It was nearing eleven in the morning, they had been waiting for their flight for the past two hours now, and she wasn't sure how much longer she would make it. While she knew that they had to follow Vong's trail before he completely disappeared, every muscle in her body was screaming at her to find a comfortable place to lie down and hibernate.

The very moment they left Decker's office, they immediately went straight to her apartment and she hastily prepared an overnight bag, filled with only the barest of necessities. To her surprise, Castle politely stayed in her small living room, busying himself with something on his phone as she scurried around to find appropriate attire for the humid destination. She was in for a temperature shock, he told her. Pack accordingly, he insisted. She reasoned that her normal attire was fine, that being the consummate professional she was meant looking the part no matter the occasion. Now as she sat idly by him, her eyes glancing down to the brown leather jacket she wore, she was beginning to wish she had listened.

She hadn't slept in well over twenty-four hours now, and the consequences were beginning to show. Drowsiness had already crippled some of her patience by the time they arrived at his flat, fortunately finding it empty of any other occupant. Judging by the crestfallen look on Castle's face, though, he wasn't feeling the same sentiment. She watched Castle hop up the stairs to pack, leaving her with the grating feeling that it would be nighttime before he finished packing everything he thought he needed. Surprisingly enough, he proceeded to dart around his expansive home, fluidly snatching up clothes like simple t-shirts and khaki shorts, and quirky items like a small handheld fan here and there and was ready to leave in no time.

The drive to the airport was a quiet affair, and once the two plane tickets were in their hands thanks to a quick call by Castle, Beckett wasted no time in finding a comfortable chair to finally find a little piece of respite.

Her plans, however, were foiled mere minutes into their wait. Montgomery had called numerous times to update her on if Decker was talking or not. As time dragged on, small shreds of information would come out of him, vague admissions, but nothing in the way of helpful leads at all.

A nearby wall monitor flashed, breaking Beckett out of her reverie, and their flight schedule switched to a bright green 'Now Boarding' indicator. Poking Castle in the shoulder, she motioned towards the monitor as she slowly stood. Checking her bag and pockets to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything, she sighed and looked once more to Castle as he grabbed his bag. Looking quickly towards the terminal entrance, a rush of nerves came back, piercing through her grogginess once last fitful time. As if some unspoken question had left her lips, she felt Castle still himself beside her. She met his gaze, and for a moment his blue eyes glowed intently, making no move to stray away from her own.

"Are you ready for this?" He asked softly. "There's no telling what will be waiting for us on the other side of this flight."

"As I will ever be." She nodded gratefully at his concern, though finding herself oddly amused that he would be the one to ask that question first. He gave her a curious smile and gestured for her to lead the way.

The walk to the terminal was a rather long one, and probably because of how heavy her feet were feeling, how languidly the muscles in her legs moved, maneuvering her way through clusters upon clusters of other people seemed more and more like an obstacle course with every step. She wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point Castle's hand had come to rest on the back of her shoulder, gently guiding her along. For a moment, the habitual notion to threaten his livelihood sat ready on the tip of her tongue. However, those words never left her. Maybe it was that she was far too tired, or, she briefly wondered, if he had really picked up on how close she was to passing out. No matter the case, she was thankful for his help.

She looked over to him honestly expecting his face to be the picture of giddiness at this point. Yet, what she saw caught her by surprise. Gone was his normal jovial expression, even the rare look of seriousness was not there. Instead, his smile was crestfallen, his gaze a little somber, staring vacantly ahead to their designated skybridge entrance, lost in his thoughts.

"What's up, Castle?" she asked.

"Huh?" he glanced over to her as they continued walking through the terminal. "Oh, nothing."

"Come on," she nudged against him. "What is it? I know that look, and that's not the 'It's so hard being as awesome as I am' frown. That's a genuine look of concern."

"It's just... well," he smiled softly. "I've been to Savannah before."

"Oh?" she replied a little hesitantly. Images of Castle and a faceless blonde beauty walking on the beach, happily smiling hand-in-hand flashed in her mind. A soft rumbling feeling quaked in her stomach at the thought, which she promptly convinced herself to ignore.

"Yeah. I took Alexis here once." He said. "We went to Savannah for about two weeks together… It was a few days after Meredith left us."

"Really?" She said, trying to sound as even as possible through the strange feeling of relief at his reply.

They came to a stop at doorway to the skybridge and handed their ticket to a lone stewardess. Stepping through its threshold, Castle continued. "I could tell Alexis wanted to get as far away from New York, from Los Angeles, from the whole ordeal as possible. So, I took her here since life tends to move a littler slower in a place like it."

"I took her to a wonderful little restaurant on Tybee Island…" A small smile formed on his cheeks. "Ah yes, it was the Crab Shack. She loved it so much, she asked me to take her there every night for dinner." He finished with a light chuckle.

"And did you?" she said, smiling at the mental imagery of him being beaten into submission every day by a fiery haired little girl demanding more crab legs.

"I did." He replied then went silent for a moment. "It was an incredibly tough time for us, but what I felt didn't matter at that point. This was for her and I wanted to make sure she never felt that she was being abandoned; that she knew I would never leave her side."

"But enough about me, Detective." Castle said quickly as they came upon a smiling flight attendant at the entrance to the plane, welcoming them aboard. They made their way towards the back of the plane. Castle promptly offered to put her bag up in the overhead compartments, which she gladly accepted and slid into the row of very uncomfortable looking seats.

"It will be about three hours until we're there, and I can tell you are on your last ounce of energy." Castle whispered as he took the seat beside her. "Try to get some rest."

"In these seats? I don't think…" she began before being stifled by a yawn.

"Then use me."

"Pardon?" Her head swiveled to him, wondering if she heard him correctly.

"Use my arm." He smiled and shuffled in his seat to where the length of his arm was nearly touching her.

"I can't, Castle." She shook her head. "You've had as much rest as I have and it would be unfair of me."

"Seriously, Kate, I don't mind at all."

"Are you sure?" she asked, trying to stave off another yawn.

"Positive. And don't worry about me being comfortable or not. I'll have you know that Alexis tells me that this arm is the greatest, softest pillow money can buy." Castle replied with a hint of playfulness, though the sincerity in his eyes was rather hard to miss.

She glanced from the welcoming smile on his face to his broad shoulder. Without a word, she slowly leaned over, pressing the length of her arm against his side, and gently laid her head down on his shoulder.

"Alexis is one lucky girl to have you as a father, Rick. Have I ever told you that?" she said groggily as she tried to burrow her head further into his shoulder. If Castle made any reply, she did not hear it, for mere moments later she slipped peacefully into a deep slumber.

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He burst open the motel door, his gun already trailing his eyes around the room. The moment he saw the adjoining door wide open, he knew there was about to be a chase on his hands. Rushing through the room, he quickly dashed through the open side door with the barrel of his gun leading the way.

_Empty again._

Charging into the tiny room, he dashed towards the small bathroom that cornered the very far end of the room. Kicking open the door, he cursed in frustration to find absolutely nothing out of place, and worst of all, not a hint of the man he was sent to kill.

Did the poor bastard know he was coming? Probably not- none of them ever knew what was going on before he had already ensured that a single bullet was racing towards their skull. Yet, the mere fact that he was released from a possible life in prison was a big enough clue that _certain_ people of interest wanted to show their gratitude to him.

He was ready to call in this latest development to his superiors, to begin the hunt all over again somewhere else- then he heard something outside- a quiet, but obvious pitch of loose gravel grating under swift, heavy feet. His mark was here, and he was running.

In a flash, he was out of the door and onto the hotel's narrow veranda, looking down onto the parking lot below. Then he caught sight of him some fifty feet away nervously yanking the handle of a car door, trying to flee. He spared no single moment before raising his gun and firing a volley of deafening shots at the car. The man was instantly startled and fell to the loose gravel lot in panic. _Good_, the gunman thought. This would give him time.

The frightened man shuffled to his feet just as the gunman opened fire again. The scream of pain was immediate; his wail carried loudly into the night, curdling with the timbre of shear agony. The gunman smiled as he saw the man fall back to the ground, but his victory was short-lived. A scowl grew on his face when the man haggardly stood back up and limped away from the exposure of the park lot's yellowish lights, and disappeared into the pitch black field it connected to.

He shot towards the nearest stairway, unleashing a few more shots as he jumped down to the first landing of the metal staircase. He quickly hopped down the stairs and raced over the parking lot towards gloomy, moonlit field. The moment he felt grass under his feet, he came to a sudden stop. He closed his eyes, and slowly sucked in the fragrant smell of crisp southern air.

Then he heard it- a small, barely distinguishable whimper. He slowly took a few steps forward, raising his head contentedly towards the blotted night sky. _This is it_, this was the moment he loved so dearly.

_There it was again_, a small gasp some ways north of him in the distance. His pace quickened towards the sound, yet through year upon laborious year of honing his talents, his steps never belied his presence.

Some ways into the featureless expanse, the silhouette of the wounded man began to form, flushing from the grey mesh of the earth around him like a bull's-eye cast in the hushed blue spotlight of the moon. The small man was hissing in pain as his fingers gently touched the tattered hole in his pants where the exit wound of the bullet tore through. It wasn't a clean kill, but no matter he thought, the sport of the chase made up for it.

"You're a hard man to track down." He smiled at the look of horror donning his target's face as he casually walked closer. His gun never erred from the man's chest.

"Look!" The cowering man's voice cracked as scrambled away onto the cold grass, "I didn't tell them anything! The truth died with Dick Coonan!"

He grimaced as the tiny man before him employed a new tactic. From his back, he shuffled around and came up to his knees, keening from side to side as though the gentlest wind threatened to topple him over. Raising his shaking, mud-caked hands, he brought them together and began to plead through incoherent sobs.

_Pathetic_.

"They know of Rathborne, yes?"

"Yes, but they think it is one man!"

"So they know…" He growled.

"But they don't know any more! I swear!" Sincerity was laced in every hoarse inflection of his voice.

Tears ran down the cowering man's face; and even amidst the surging euphoria that always accompanied the climax of the hunt, this one simple gesture made him take pause. It had been a long time since he had seen a man cry just before they were about to die. Typically, he never saw their faces. He never got to relish in their pained, dilated eyes silently begging for mercy- and he didn't realize how much he missed it until now.

"_Hey!"_ A voice somewhere in distance shouted.

He whirled around to the source, keeping his gun trained on the kneeling man. Three men were way off in the distance running towards him. Biting back a fit of anger,he cursed his luck, momentarily unsure of what to do with this new development. The image of his father, furious and keen with punishment flashed in his eyes. The gunman only had one choice if he wanted to live.

He had no time to waste, no time to savor this moment any longer. He raised his gun one final time.

"No… no, wait! You have to believe-"

_BOOM!_

The bullet roared out of the gun, finding its mark through the terrified man's feeble attempt to shield his face- Johnny Vong was dead before his body crumpled lifelessly onto the dewy grass.

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Beckett awoke with someone gently shaking her.

"Kate," she heard Castle's voice whispering gently in her ear. "Kate, we're here."

Her eyes slowly opened and slowly glanced around to take in her surroundings, and then promptly shot open in full alert when she noticed Castle's smiling face only inches from her.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked.

Too groggy to answer, she looked down and noticed at some point during the flight, Castle had managed to cover her with his jacket- no wonder she felt so warm, she mused as a pleasant feeling spread throughout her at his thoughtfulness. The man most certainly had some incredible moments of chivalry. Sitting up, she looked out the window and saw they were slowly coming to a stop on the runway. In the distance, the dotted sunlit skyline of Savannah was slowly rolling by.

"Yeah, I did." She paused and gave him a thankful smile. "Thank you."

"Anytime." He replied with a grin.

Making her way in front of Castle as they grabbed their bags and proceeded to leave the plane, Beckett allowed herself to smile as the images of waking up to Castle's face was still fresh in her mind. Though she definitely didn't want to admit it to the man himself, she had to agree with Alexis and promised herself to personally tell her so for her glowing assessment of Castle as a pillow. Yet, as she opened up the terminal door, the pleasant feeling traveling around Beckett's stomach completely vanished away when something caught her eye by the luggage carousel. Stopping dead in her tracks, she snatched the tail of Castle's jacket and yanked him back towards her with a forceful tug.

"Whoa! What, what?" Castle yelped.

"I'm going to kill you, Castle." Kate seethed under her breath, not caring at all about the startled looks some passers by were giving her. She shot her hand forward, pointing towards a lone man holding a simple sign in the distance. With a look mixed of terror and confusion, Castle followed her finger and narrowed his eyes at the sign.

_Mr. and Mrs. Rook Jameson_

"I didn't do it!" He exclaimed with a tiny squeak as he backed away frantically. His and her duffel bag unceremoniously dropped to the floor in his haste to throw his hands up in a surrendering gesture.

"Sure," she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him, slowly stalking towards him while wondering what part of his body she could get away with shooting. "Did you call this in while I was packing or something?"

"If I did it, then why would I get his name backwards?" He shut his eyes tightly, and looked as though he was preparing himself for the inevitable pain to come.

She opened her mouth to retort, but once his excuse registered, she promptly stopped, immediately feeling her anger dissipate into a few very acute levels of embarrassment. Castle watched her carefully as he slowly bent down and picked the two bags back up, perhaps understandably still terrified that he would shot at any moment. Feeling quite terrible at jumping the gun on him after how nice he'd been on the flight, she quickly tried to formulate an apology.

"Oh."

A smile slowly graced his cheeks again as he merely waved it off. "No worries, Detective. I probably would have thought the same thing in your shoes." He said and motioned toward the officer. "How about we go see what the guy who has obviously never read my books wants then?"

They made their way over to the officer, and Castle casually cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, I'm Rook... Jameson Rook." Castle said coolly, in perhaps the most overly suave voice he had ever uttered around her. _Seriously, Castle?_ she groaned.

The officer looked quizzically to Castle then down to the small white poster board a few times, the gasped. "Oh, I'm so sorry about that! I thought I got the name right when my boss informed me to come get you."

"Really, it's perfectly alright." Castle assured the man. "It happens all the time."

"I'll take you to the scene right away." The officer motioned for them to follow him as he turned around and began walking towards the exit some ways in the distance. "We haven't touched anything, kept it the way it was discovered, like your boss instructed."

_Scene- what scene?_

Beckett quickened her pace to catch up to the officer. What was he talking about? Better yet, how in the world did this guy know they were coming? She saw Castle fall in line on the other side of the officer looking as confused as she undoubtedly felt.

"My apologies, but our boss didn't exactly tell us where the scene was." She said in her best apologetic voice.

"We'll be heading to the old Country Inn just north of this place." The officer motioned ahead of them as they passed through the terminal doors. There was a marked SUV parked mere paces right in front of them.

"Yeah, the body is in a field about two-hundred yards away from the hotel." The officer took their bags and went to the trunk. "It's a real short drive, so don't worry."

As Beckett quickly climbed into the car, she couldn't shake the feeling that she already knew the identity of the body they were referring to. What troubled her more was that if it was the body of Johnny Vong and he was still lying in a field, then that most likely meant anything that Vong was carrying that might have helped them was already gone, taken by whoever did the deed.

"Beckett," Castle leaned over to her and whispered, "How did they know we were coming?"

The pair looked at each other for a moment; then realization struck.

"Brooks." They panned in unison.

"Why though?" Castle asked as he buckled his seat belt.

"They wouldn't let us in whatever this crime scene is if we weren't federal agents." She whispered back just before the officer opened up his door and climbed into the driver's seat.

The drive to the field was thankfully quick and silent. Though she desperately wanted a little time to collect her thoughts- on Vong, on Decker and Savannah of all places- she was all too aware that particular luxury was going to have to wait until they were some place much more secure. For now, she had no choice but to slip back into the familiar comfort of homicide detective mode, focusing every bit of her thoughts on finding a lead- the rest could wait until tonight.

They came to a stop some ways into the field and she saw they had a large block of the field completely taped off. Beckett and Castle got out of the car and took in the site before them. Four other squad cars stood post at each corner, with a couple of officers in uniform standing around each one. A lone coroner's van was inside the area and she could see one man in a coroner's jumpsuit talking animatedly to a very burly looking gentleman- must be the sheriff, she ventured.

The burly looking man looked to their car and quickly shooed the coroner away as he turned around and made his way towards them.

"Pleasure to meet you two, Mr. and Mrs. Jameson." The sheriff shook their hands with a pleasant smile. "Shall we just skip the formalities and get down to business?"

Kate stifled a groan and nodded quickly, ignoring the urge to correct the man. "That is perfectly fine by us, sir."

"Alright," the sheriff began as he pulled out a small notepad. "Well, according to his driver's license, the vic's name is Johnny Vong."

While she certainly feared that it was going to be Vong, she could only look to Castle and silently commiserate together. Glancing over at the covered body, her only thought was that she wished she would have been just a little faster, a little quicker to pick up the corruption of Decker. Maybe then, she mused, Vong would still be alive.

"That's what I thought."

"Do you mind telling us exactly how our agency got word of this?" Castle spoke up. "This new development was basically thrown in our laps."

"Yes sir, I don't mind at all." the burly sheriff replied. "It wasn't even ten minutes after I opened up shop that some gruff sounding fella from the F.B.I called me about this Vong character. Didn't even give me time talk or ask how worried I should be- just said to expect a body. I was honestly quite surprised when he told me two agents were already on the way down here."

"We were actually on the way down here to find and apprehend this man." Beckett explained.

"Pardon my French, ma'am, but it is one hell of a coincidence that you came here first."

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, for one, he had two plane tickets on him."

"Two?" Beckett couldn't hide the surprise in her voice. "May I see them?"

"Sure." The sheriff turned towards the crime scene and yelled. "Hey, Eddie! Bring those ticket stubs over here for a second."

After a moment, a young man in his early 20's at the very least ducked under the yellow tape and jogged over to them holding a plastic bag. "Here you go, sheriff." The sheriff passed the bag over to Kate and she held it up. There were two tickets in there, alright. Both were torn into multiple, tattered pieces and haphazardly assembled back together in separate tiny plastic bags. Smatterings of blood were all over both of them, already in the process of drying, staining out many words and letters.

"Can you make out what they say?" Castle asked as he peered into the bag.

"J.F.K International to Hartsfield International Airport- Atlanta." She recited, and then she narrowed her eyes over to the next ticket. "The other one says J.F.K. International to… wait, what the…"

"Where?" Castle asked as Beckett's face pressed closer to the bag.

"The other destination is Florence, Italy." She said with curiosity lacing her words.

After a moment of silence, the sheriff flipped to another page of his notes and motioned for their attention.

"The victim also had two-thousand dollars in his wallet." He stated.

"And the shooter didn't take the money?" Castle asked curiously.

"The witnesses say the man fled once he fired." The sheriff replied as he flipped through his notes.

"How far away were the witnesses from the shooting?" Castle back around towards the hotel.

"One of them said they were at least a couple of football fields away when they noticed some commotion in the field and heard a shot. They were a long ways off even by the time the shooter started hauling ass across the rest of the field."

"Well that rules out robbery." Kate concluded grimly as she looked to Castle.

"How do you figure?" The sheriff asked, tilting his head and crossed his arms.

"If it was a mugging gone wrong, he would have still attempted to get what he was looking for." Castle began to explain.

"Robberies and muggings are profiled somewhat differently from a murder. The crimes may sometimes end in the same fashion, but the intentions behind them are completely different. Where one man is out for money, the other is out to end a life." Castle took a few steps over towards the crime scene before continuing. "If it was a robbery, and by some unfortunate turn of events he accidentally killed the victim, he would have still taken the victim's wallet since he still had time to do so. To a robber, the ends always justify the means."

"So even if this was a violent mugging instead, he would have not left without justifying the crime." Beckett supplied, gesturing towards the taped off area. "Instead, we have a dead man still carrying every belonging on him, with one shot directly to his forehead. And I would be willing to bet that your Medical Examiner will find an exit wound trajectory much lower than the entry point, and at a very sharp angle."

"A clear sign of execution- something that would only be done when there is only one intent." Castle added.

"Murder." They concluded at once.

The sheriff looked skeptically from one of them to the other a few times. Then a grin began to slowly form on his face, quickly blooming into a full-fledge toothy smile.

"Damn, you two are good." The sheriff let out a hearty chuckle and slapped a blushing Castle on the shoulder. He took a moment to scan one more page of his notes, and then he closed the pad and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Well anyway, the victim was also carrying a passport with the name of Marcus DeWitt. And ladies and gentlemen, that's all that I've got."

"So he didn't have time to clean the body of any possessions."

"No, sir." The sheriff replied.

"I would be willing to bet the same goes for where ever Vong was fleeing from as well." Castle looked hopefully over to Beckett.

"Well, you're in luck." The sheriff pointed back towards the hotel. "He rented out room 209. Y'all can go check it out whenever you want."

They quickly thanked the sheriff and went to the rooms. Hours later, Beckett and Castle were still rummaging through Vong's room with not a shred of evidence to be found. Other than a red backpack holding nothing more than one simple white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, they had yet to find any single thing that could help. It was eerie to behold, and rather troubling in a way to Beckett- Vong went to all of this trouble to get away, but this was all he took?

"It doesn't make sense." She heard Castle mutter from the bathroom.

"What doesn't?" She closed the top middle drawer and proceeded opened the two beside it.

"Savannah." Castle reappeared from the bathroom empty-handed. "I mean, why here?"

"Yeah, I agree." Beckett replied and let out a sigh as she opened and promptly closed the two completely empty drawers.

"It's obvious judging by how little he packed that he knew he was on the run. The bed was completely untouched- no cell phone, one change of clothes in a backpack, two-thousand dollars in his wallet, and a fake passport..." Castle paused, looking utterly perplexed. "It's just… odd."

Beckett turned to Castle and gave a small nod. "Everything here practically screams he was planning on fleeing the country."

"Yet, here we are in sunny Savannah- not Florence, Italy." Castle added with a cheerful smirk.

Beckett paced around in front of the single bed, trying to make sense of the perplexing decisions Vong made. "He takes a flight straight from New York to Atlanta, but he drives the rest of the way here? If he was really running away from something, Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta would have taken him anywhere he wanted to go. Or he could have taken the same flight path we did, and fly straight here."

"Yet he decided to rent a car and drive." Castle finished with a low sigh. "Seriously, if you knew that your life is in danger, why come here? Why not go out of country and disappear?"

"If it were me, I wouldn't have come here unless I had a reason." Kate answered.

"A very big reason." Castle added as his brows furrowed in thought.

"He brought something that would either save him or vindicate him. So whatever it is, it has to be in here."

Castle nodded in agreement and they went right back to searching the room. Minutes passed as they both scoured every conceivable spot again and again, yet to no avail. She went back down to the floor and began to search once more under the bed for any signs of slashes in the box springs when she felt Castle's weight press into the untouched mattress above her. And just as she was about to remind him there wasn't any point in looking through it, she heard him laugh.

"Aw, that's cheesy!" Castle groaned. Beckett sat up and saw Castle's arm was rummaging under one of the pillows.

"Did you find something?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think I did." He pulled his arm out from under the pillow, holding a small folded piece of paper. "Honestly, who hides things under their pillow anymore?"

"Well, you've got to give him credit for making the bed back up to ensure nobody looked there." She replied as her eyes scanned over the immaculate covers. Castle acknowledged her observation with a simple shrug as he walked around the bed and began to unfold the letter. Curious to see what exactly he had found, Beckett stood back up and walked over to him. Once he unfurled the letter, she scanned over the document expecting to see their next lead staring right back at her. Instead, she only saw one very bewildering line.

They Died in the Desert, And Thereafter Rose The Oasis

Neither said a word as they absorbed the words of the strange message. At once, they slowly looked up each other for a moment, then back down to the note.

"So we have a dead man that leaves behind a riddle instead of answers." Castle mused and turned to Beckett. "I really don't like this guy."

"It was Vong's act on Earth, Castle." She rolled her eyes and carefully took the letter.

"My point still stands."

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AN: Savannah is an absolutely beautiful city, and I would recommend any fan of historical towns and great seafood to check it out. This chapter is pretty special to me because the scene where Vong is killed was one of the first pieces of this story I wrote.


	8. Riddled With Answers

Chapter 8 – Riddled with Answers

…_Finally._

Esposito quietly released an exasperated sigh as he watched the back of Karpowski storm her way into the nearby elevator. Stretching in his chair, he looked around the now nearly vacant bullpen wondering exactly what he was going to do for the rest of the night. Ryan had long since vanished, under the rather hilarious guise of having to meet his girlfriend, Jenny, for an anniversary date. They had just finalized all of the paperwork for the Carmel Sucha case, and the last thing he wanted to do was pass the time pouring over another case until it was time to go.

In his musings, his eyes landed on his boss' tidy, vacant desk, and he let out a small chuckle. Beckett and Castle together in Hollywood, huh… oh how he wished he was a fly on the wall for that trip. He was honestly quite surprised that he hadn't received any late night phone call that Beckett had finally killed her famous shadow yet, or at the very least hospitalized him. At this point, their partnership had teetered on the mythos of legendary around the precinct. For all intents and purposes, Beckett had been a juggernaut of endless drive the very moment she joined the force, an unwavering officer that deserved every bit of respect she earned. She gave no quarter, took every case straight to heart, and played by the book even when she didn't have to.

Then along came Richard Castle.

The man was a powder keg of energy, a staggering infusion of brilliance melded with the compulsive need to never have a dull moment. He couldn't say he was rule breaker either, because he often wondered if the writer even learned the meaning of the phrase in the first place. He encapsulated everything Beckett wasn't on the job- a veritable immovable object colliding into an unstoppable force.

And somehow, by some brilliant, unexpected twist in the cosmos- they fit together perfectly.

Beckett had always been a stellar detective, and Castle was one hell of a master with a pen, but together though, they infused something into each other that put them in a league all their own. And each month, their closure rate proved that in volumes. Each played off the other's insatiable passion for mystery, stoking and prodding the other to push themselves no matter how much the other wouldn't budge. It was an incredible thing to watch. It was a fiery and riveting dance between the two of them that seemed to continually build and build, and sometimes it bordered precariously on the realm of foreplay.

With that thought in mind, he thought back to some of the positions he'd accidentally walked on them with no small amount of amusement. It would certainly be amazing if they actually realized all of it someday. They were good for each other, and he hoped for the sake of the ridiculous amount of money in the office pool, they weren't far off from realizing it too.

"Excuse me." A voice said close by, spurring him from his reverie.

Looking up, he was met with a tender smile of an elderly looking man standing rather stiffly halfway between his and Beckett's desk.

"Mind if I take a moment of your time, Detective? I promise it will be quick." The elderly man shuffled his feet for a moment and looked around the bullpen.

"Yes sir, what can I do for you?" Esposito stood up, briefly wondering why the elderly man's eyes looked utterly familiar.

"Do you know where I might find Detective Kate Beckett?" He said in a warm, polite voice as his eyes glanced around the room.

"You're looking for Detective Beckett?" Esposito repeated, eyeing the man curiously. If he was looking for her, he certainly picked a bad week to do it. "Mind if I ask why you are looking for her first?"

"Oh, where are my manners," the elderly man chuckle nervously and held out his hand. "I'm Jim Beckett- Kate's father."

"Mr. Beckett, it's a pleasure to meet you sir." Feeling somewhat embarrassed for not connecting the physical traits sooner, Esposito cordially shook the man's hand, finding himself not surprised at all that Kate's father had a very strong grip.

"I take it you are Javier Esposito then?" He gave a knowing grin.

"Yes sir, I am."

"I'm glad to finally meet you. Katie has told me so much about you and Detective Ryan. She hasn't been too rough on you guys, has she?" he winked.

"Oh, no sir. Not since Castle showed up." Esposito replied with a light chuckle. "He takes the brunt of your daughter's wrath on an hourly basis."

"Ah yes, Richard Castle…" The elder Beckett's eyes seem to glow with humor for a moment. "I've heard many, many things about that man as well."

Esposito laughed. "Well they make quite the team."

After a moment, the detective looked back over to Beckett's desk, and two things occurred to him. Throughout the years, this was the first time he had ever seen Beckett's father, and secondly, why in the world was he here on the one week out of God knows how long that Beckett was on vacation.

"I sincerely apologize, Mr. Beckett, but do you mind if I asked why you're here for her?" Esposito inquired. "I mean, didn't Kate tell you she wouldn't be here for a few more days?"

"No," Jim knit his brows. "Where is she?"

"In Hollywood- her and Castle were asked to fly out there for a few days and act as consultants on the next Nikki Heat movie." Esposito replied carefully, relaying exactly what the captain told him only days earlier.

Ever the sucker for detail, he did not miss the minute shift in Jim's demeanor from pleasant to something much more- well, concealed. He'd never met the man before, but he had seen that look before in the man's daughter dozen's of times- that glimpse of a shadow flick across her eyes for only a whisper of a moment. It was a rare thing to see Beckett's impregnable façade grow cracks, even if for the briefest of moments, and perhaps that was why he had come to so quickly identify such an innocuous change, even if it was coming from the person she inherited it from.

"She should be back soon, though." Esposito said, trying to remain casual. "We just finished one of her cases-"

"-I read in the paper," Jim suddenly interrupted him. "I read that a Senator was murdered in his home."

Esposito paused as he looked at the man, feeling a bit confused at the sudden change in topic.

"Yes, Senator Alvin Burbury. He was found five days ago, a few blocks from here."

"Is my daughter working the case?" Jim asked as he stuffed his hands into his jacket.

Under any other circumstance, Esposito would have politely told any person who was asking questions regarding a murder that information could not be disclosed except to the victim's family. But in that very moment when Jim's question stilled in the air between them, a very foreign sensation began to creep its way into his thoughts- total confusion.

Who _was_ working that case?

"Honestly sir, I don't know who got assigned to it. But I can go ask our Captain who is real quick."

"Oh, it's alright." Jim quickly motioned his hand dismissively.

"Really, let me just go get the Captain and he can clear this all up." Esposito assured as he turned towards Montgomery's office, silently hoping that Mr. Beckett would agree so that he would have an excuse to ask his boss that very same question.

"No, wait! Wait!"

Esposito stopped immediately at the forcefulness of Jim's voice.

"I- I just… She's already been through so much, you see? She's been through so much…" Jim waved his hands imploringly as began tapping his foot; and Esposito could only look on as the man before him grew more and more distraught.

"I saw it in the paper… I saw that Alvin Burbury died. I didn't make the connection until this morning…"

Esposito suddenly felt a very acute sense of eeriness when he noticed a few errant tears escaping the elderly man's eyes.

"Mr. Beckett, are you-"

"I'm worried about my daughter, Detective. She is as stubborn as I am, she will want to follow it to the very end if it came to it."

"Follow what-"

"I'm sorry. I- I really think I should go now. I have to go." Jim stuttered out and cast his eyes towards the floor. Esposito narrowed his eyes, desperately trying to decipher the man before him. His mind scrambled to come up with anything to say to the man, to stall him just for a little while longer until he opened up.

"Please tell my daughter- tell Kate she knows where to find me." Jim said just as his voice was beginning to crackle with unpinned emotion. _What the hell is going on_, Esposito wondered with no small level of alarm as the elderly man began to nervously rock on is heels and gave a halfhearted wave. The next thing Esposito knew, he was standing alone in the middle of the bullpen, rooted in place as he watched the retreating form of Beckett's dad slip into the elevator and out of sight.

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"I just don't get it."

Kate warily lifted her eyes open to see Castle standing at the threshold of the bedroom, nervously thumping a now painfully familiar small piece of paper.

"You do realize that was at least the thirtieth time you've said that in the last twenty-four hours?" she grumbled and promptly threw the plush comforter over her head.

For a moment the room was peacefully silent once again, and so she burrowed her head further into the pillow, happily drifting back off to sleep.

Then, a blinding jet of bright light hit her all at once. She quickly opened her eyes to see Castle standing beside her, his smile lopsided and brimming with way too much merriment this early in the day, holding a hapless edge of the comforter in his hands. And in that moment, her brain decided to fully wake up and remind her that she was in bed, and wasn't exactly dressed for company.

Trying her best to look scandalized, Kate scrounged the fluffy comforter into a large ball in front of her. Quickly peeking down to make sure she hadn't given Castle a show in the process; she breathed the tiniest breath of relief at the large NYPD t-shirt covering her before turning her attention back to him. Bent solely on wiping that silly grin off his face, she shuffled back until she was firmly pressed against the headboard and glared at him with all the fury she could muster.

"Castle, are you insane? I could have been _naked_ under this!" She shrieked, and sadly enough, his smile only grew wider.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, my dear detective." He gave a playful wink and casually walked back to the door.

Her mouth opened a few times, begging to unleash a salvo of threats at him, but absolutely nothing came out. _He's going to pay when I wake up._

"You have been sleeping for roughly fourteen hours now." Castle said. "I honestly figured you would be angrier if you sleep until after noon."

Castle suddenly gasped and he quickly dashed out of the room. Seconds later, he came back carefully balancing a tray in his hands. Her mouth involuntarily dropped open as he sat it down on her lap and took in all its contents. A few pieces of buttered toast and a nice, steamy cup of coffee sat snugly beside a folded local newspaper.

"I figured you would be hungry- for your energy and all that." Castle said quickly and hurriedly cast his eyes away, finding a few spots on the wall suddenly interesting.

While it still did not make up for the fact that he was a dead man once she got out of bed, Kate mumbled a quick 'thank you' and gingerly picked up the toast.

"So what is it that you're having problems with?" Kate said right before she took a bite.

"The riddle."

"I know that." She put down her toast and quickly grabbed the coffee. "I mean what about it?"

"Everything." He replied. "The more I look at it, the more questions I begin to have. When you went to bed, I figured I would have this thing solved before you woke up- and now I honestly don't know if I could answer it in a year."

"It's just one sentence." She took a quick sip, happily noting Castle had managed to find the same he always brought to the precinct. "It really can't be that hard."

Instead of replying, he merely took a step towards her and handed the offending piece of paper to her. Reading the riddle a few times over, she looked back up to see an unabashedly expectant look on his face.

"You're lost." She concluded. She didn't mean for it to sound patronizing or anything, after all, it was something of a shock to her. Castle was always full of surprises. Even the very day they had met, he seemed to be exceptionally versed in so many areas of criminal justice that she honestly wondered what he was doing writing instead of being a detective. He'd proven rather embarrassingly he was quite close to an expert in marksmanship, he was replete with skills hidden just beneath his playboy exterior- yet here he was, utterly stumped on the one piece of evidence that was, quite bluntly, right up his alley.

She could see it in his eyes that it bothered him a whole lot more than he was letting on- who would stay up the entirety of the night just trying to solve a riddle if it didn't. This was one of those rare moments that his input was more than merely valuable on a clue; it was simply priceless to know.

"You will figure it out, Castle. I've got faith in you." She said softly, assuring. For a moment, Castle merely stared at her and she could practically feel something in the room begin to change.

"You think so?" He asked.

"Well, this little mystery would certainly be in your area of expertise." She playfully teased and took a quick sip of her coffee. "So what do you think of this sentence, speaking strictly as a writer?"

Castle looked pensive for a moment, steadily keeping his eyes locked onto the small piece of paper. As he rubbed his chin, she recalled some of the literal clues he incorporated into his previous works. Granted, many of them were nothing more than elaborately constructed, yet utterly simplistic plot devices meant to carry his protagonist from one scene to another. After all, the beauty of what a good riddle could do resided solely in their dumfounding simplicity.

When it came to riddles, they were a mechanism to him he would say, a way to unabashedly announce the entirety of the plot to an unsuspecting reader. It was a literal jack-in-the-box, an underhanded way to have the most important answer stare them right in the face, auspiciously important for the moment it was being revealed- enough to sate the most ravenous of curiosities- but never would it belie its greatest secret until it is far too late.

But this one was different. It had no apparent background to use as theoretical foundation. Every word was suspect; even the grammar itself was far too questionable to even begin discovering the messages veiled intent.

Taking the tray off her lap, Castle disappeared back into the living room without a word.

"I have a few theories, but I would gladly rather we discussed them over some lunch."

"Did you wake me up just to take me to lunch, Castle?" she flopped unceremoniously back on the bed.

"If you want to look at it that way, sure!" He shouted back, passing by her room in a blur.

Well, she was still a little hungry, she thought. Choosing to ignore his playful remark, she promptly got out of bed and threw on a simple dress shirt and jeans. Making her way out into the living room, she saw Castle already standing at the door holding the riddle in one hand and keys to their rental car in the other.

"So is that a yes?" He asked.

She looked at him for a moment, weighing her choices on how to reply.

"Is Crab Shack really as good as you said it was?"

Castle simply smiled and opened the door for her. _I guess I'm about to find out._

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"So, what are your theories so far?" She said as they situated themselves in a plushy booth of the seafood restaurant that was a few blocks from the hotel.

"It's probably silly- probably doesn't even come close to being remotely correct about it, but…" He trailed off, obviously a bit hesitant to explain.

_Wow_, Beckett mused. It was a very rare thing for Castle to ever be hesitant about giving an opinion on any tiny facet of any case. Sometimes his theories were outlandish; sometimes they were amusing jaunts into his elaborative imagination. Yet, whatever was going through is mind right now must be something entirely different.

"Castle, this is the last lead we have on Vong before we start looking into Burbury and Krashinko- anything you can come up with will be good."

"Well, to begin with, I'm not exactly looking at the riddle itself, but the question you asked me while you were in bed."

Thinking back to their earlier conversation, she replied, "About your expertise?"

Castle nodded firmly.

"Any writer worth there salt understands one thing about a riddle: it can, and will, serve many purposes."

"What are you saying?" She said as a waitress came up to their table and handed them their menus.

"How can I put this," He said with a pause. "Have you ever heard of a poem called 'The Faerie Queene'?"

"I vaguely remember hearing about it in Western Lit, sure. Why?"

"Well it's been studied and analyzed ad nauseum- and nearly every scholar has some sort of different take on it. But there is one thing all of the luminaries of Western literature agree on- you are simply not just reading one story."

"Go on."

"What makes all those professors go so gaga over it is the deliberately meticulous level of detail Spenser fused into every line he penned. The story has a meaning, sure, but so does every stanza and every line. Even the words themselves were carefully chosen to symbolize completely different messages beyond the story itself- though by some masterful stroke- each message was invariably related in some way to the story."

"Sounds complicated." She said with a frown.

"Without a doubt."

"So what does that have to do with our riddle?"

"What I'm trying to say is that there are underlying meanings littered all over a riddle. The overall message is one thing, but anyone choosing to write one has to take into consideration multiple things- like context, tone, function, and the deliberativeness of word placement."

"So…" she paused a moment to consider his explanation, then slowly cracked a small smile. "What you are saying is if we arrange all of the letters around, it will spell out Lord Voldemort or something?"

"Something like that." Castle said with a grin. "There will be subtext and meaning to every word. So, not only will we have to consider the entire riddle on its own if we want to know what Vong was talking about, but we'll have to dissect the purpose of each word too."

"I guess we better get started then?" She replied.

He glanced around the sparsely populated dining hall, before taking a deep breath.

"I think it's a puzzle."

Confused, she narrowed her eyes at him. _What is he talking about?_

"A puzzle." She repeated.

"Well, if I look at it as someone trying to compose it, everything down to the placement of the commas would come into question. Looking at it as one giant message is one thing, but as you start looking at each part of it individually, something else entirely begins to take shape."

"The first half of it is simple, direct. 'They died in the desert'. But if it's literally taken into the context of the entire message, it becomes a contradiction in terms- someone can't perform any other action after they are dead."

"Unless it's a metaphor." She piped in.

"Yes," he nodded his head. "Or it is talking about two entirely different things."

"Or both." She added quickly.

"Precisely, and that's why the second half is so confusing. And I think it's meant to be that way- the second half of it is intentionally ambiguous." He explained, motioning his hands in the air. "It's no longer talking about people; it's talking of an entity, a thing."

"A desert can mean an array of things- most commonly, a total absence of knowledge, or loss in ignorance." Castle scooted closer to the table and flipped through the menu. "Even some of the most prominent events of religious foundations take place in a far-flung desert, void of any other life. Some say that this location is intentional, that it symbolizes man stranded in the primal state of nature- left to dwell in an expanse of nothingness, metaphorically transposing humanity's most basic state of being- to be alone in the world, ever persevering through to find shelter."

"You're gathering that all from one line?" She tipped her head to the side. Though thoroughly intriguing as it always was to see Castle slip so effortlessly into this staggering display of imagination, she wasn't convinced.

"Well, they died didn't they?" He replied, looking up from his menu for a moment.

"Yes, in the desert, according to the paper." She said. "What does that have to do with all of that symbolism?"

"Being lost in the desert is a common motif throughout mankind's history, Kate."

"…But, dying there is an entirely different story." She finished. "To die in the desert would imply the abandonment of hope."

"But that's not all. And that's where the oasis comes in. The line makes no more mention of whoever died. It just goes simply into a statement. Notice that in the riddle, 'the' is capitalized before 'Oasis'. It's intentional- at first, I thought it was speaking of a place."

"It isn't?" Kate looked at him skeptically. "We're talking about people who shipped opium. This could just be code for wherever Rathborne began."

"You may be correct, Kate. But I think it's more like a state of being." Further bewilderment must have been evident on her face, for a continued a moment later. "Think about it- what is the one common destination in a desert that man always finds salvation?"

"Well, that goes without saying," she waved her hand. "An oasis is symbolic of life where there could be none."

Castle gave a knowing smile. "Then why is it even mentioned in a riddle where the people that needed it most are already dead?"

Realization slammed into her with little warning. She quickly took the folded piece of paper away from him and quickly scanned over the single line again.

"My god." She muttered under her breath. "It is talking about to completely different things, isn't it?"

He nodded in agreement. "The oasis can mean many things. In some cultures, it means knowledge out of nothingness; in others it can mean fertility in a barren world. But before all of that, you really must consider in its context- out of the abandonment of hope, springs forth something eternal, something not human at all."

"So it is going from a human trait like death and desolation, to a symbol for eternal life." She said contemplatively, trying to piece together all of the things what he was hinting at.

"The goal of mankind since the dawn of civilization. Transcendence." Castle concluded solemnly. "The ascension of man to something greater, something unshackled from time, untainted by earthly afflictions– grieved by no enemy, not even to death."

Castle slowly put down his drink and looked directly at her. Gone was the normal excited smile he would flash when some new twist fleshed out in the many cases they had done before. His expression was of quieted alarm, stripped bare and edged in an inner turmoil Kate was apprehensive to even acknowledge herself.

_What is he trying to say?_

"Castle... This doesn't exactly sound like we're talking about the lofty ambitions of a drug cartel anymore." she said as a strange mixture of worry and fear crept in her thoughts. The air seemed to grow a little colder as her own words began to sink in. The idea was unsettling; the many shadowy paths her mind conjured that they would have to travel to find the answer, even more so.

"What if we're not?" was his only reply.

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AN: And… further down the rabbit hole we go.


	9. Best Laid Plans

_**Chapter 9 – Best Laid Plans**_

_"The closer you are to your enemy, the safer you will be," was his cryptic, parting advice._

_His father smiled haughtily, ever the showman, stilling his hand just above his shoulder. This moment was only for him, it was everything he lived for- the pomp and ceremony, the tiny flag secured to the lapel on his designer suit, giving a cordial wave standing before a formless mass of others doing the same for their sons and daughters. It was his way of saying good luck, son. It was a glimmer of endearment seldom seen leaving the old man's lips. And he hoped, after all of this was said and done, he could hear it again._

_The relief of surviving basic training was still fresh in his memory when he got the call. He was going to war. It was culminating in a place he had only heard of maybe a handful of times in his life, a place that instantly conjured up visions of merciless heat and oceans of shifting sand. This was his farewell, the moment he should feel purpose coursing his veins, drunk with glory in showing his father he wasn't a ghost anymore- yet, all at once when the clipped roar of a sergeant lifting over the sweltering tarmac, he had never felt more alone, more beaten or despoiled, in his entire life._

_Slipping a hand into his pocket, he nervously rubbed his fingers over the coarse bumps and ridges of a familiar sedative- his mother's rosary. He looked at the passive expression on his father's face hoping to see some semblance of emotion again._

_Once he told his father of his decision to join the army, what seemed like since the day they buried his mother, the old man showed pride and remarkable support for him. His smile seemed a little more genuine, so did the peculiar emergence of advice. The old man even specially selected a highly respectable company for him to join. His flights of praise carried so strongly in his letters, speaking so deeply on honor, and duty to one's country and family, he often wondered if this was the catalyst he so longed for to finally find a reason to call him his father instead of his dad._

_Yet, somewhere between home and here, that sentiment grew distant with each passing minute, dwindling away just like his father's prideful smile._

_"The war awaits," his father spoke curtly, squaring his chin as he stepped away. "Make me proud."_

_With those words, they took their separate ways._

_In the war, the images of his father looking on expectantly as he was shuffled away into the awaiting airplane were his only companions for a while. They served as a means of divining purpose, to stay focused in the prickling loneliness he felt at first. Make him proud, he thought to himself each new day. When his company was tasked to go on a simple reconnaissance mission, don't disappoint him anymore became his mantra. And days later, under the veil of an inconspicuous, barren night, he and a few others from his company crept quietly back into the moonlit desert, and he kept his word._

_That night, he died._

Clamoring through the ever thickening wilderness cluttered out before him, the correlations were not lost upon him. His strange, exhilarating journey seemed fated to pass through nights like this every so often. The air was damper here though, oppressive and stilling more in his lungs with each labored heave of breath. The goal was different this time around, but the result was still the same: he was running with a trail of blood in his wake.

A long, arduous trek through the hazy backwoods of Georgia pushed him further and further away from his last victim. Johnny Vong was no more, as the stern instructions he received demanded. It wasn't the perfect kill he so rigorously strived for, nor did Vong's last words impart anything of worth to report- and furthermore, the couple of witnesses only added weight to his troubles. However, fate had been kind after all was said and done. Slipping away from the authorities had been simple enough- they were bound by rules, forced to observe protocol under any situation. That made them lazy, entirely too predictable.

A day removed from the apex of his hunt, the high was waning. Taking a moment to rest, he propped himself against the jagged base of a gnarled oak jutting into a smothering, thickly covered grove. He could not rest for long, though. There was one more destination he had to find, and possibly, the last secret Johnny Vong had yet to reveal.

By all accounts, Vong was an incredibly gifted, well connected man. After all, he had to be in order to breach not only Dick Coonan's impeditive issues of trust, but to also garner the loyalty of his own father. However, loyalty didn't mean everything. He was a distant member of their brotherhood, though. He was an asset to be kept at arm's length. Never privy to their greatest secrets, Vong only knew their name and their clout.

So then, how did he _know _about Savannah?

It was a troubling turn into what had already been a curious assignment. They told him to find Vong, kill him, and then tear from him anything he carried. This method was a far cry from any other they had tasked him to do. He was a killer, precisioned death and fading back into the shadows was all he knew. Pilfering bodies and stealing information was something he didn't do- refused to do more often than not. Before, when they needed someone to be punished, they always insisted that he made his work public, make it a message. Yet this one was hushed and it reeked of impatience. They wanted Vong erased and everything he owned along with him, loyalty be damned, of course. To make matters all the more confusing, they told him exactly where Vong might be going.

Vong fleeing to here wasn't a coincidence, he was sure of that. Somehow that impetuous slimeball knew who had stayed behind here and what this place meant to the brotherhood. The only question that remained was what exactly Vong had planned to do.

That meant one thing, one terrible thing- this wasn't over. He failed to completely finish the job, to erase Johnny Vong from existence, and disappointing his father was the very last thing he wanted to do. There was only one way to fix this, and that was to go to the destination Vong had obviously risked his life to come here for.

So with one final gaze at his surroundings, he continued much in the same way it had begun all those years ago- his feet, laden in fatigue, ceaselessly trudging through the blackened brush and thicket- and he, a ghost intent on reappearing once more.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Javier Esposito was not having a good day. It seemed as though every homicidal maniac within a two mile radius had picked today to get caught. The bullpen was overflowing in blue uniforms guiding person after person into lock-up. The morning had been chaotic, the influx of more people scurrying by after lunch was even worse.

He had tried to keep his head buried in file after file to push through the day. However, something else kept his focus astray and it was beginning to get under his skin. Somehow, the two empty chairs at Beckett's desk coaxed his attention back again and again. It wasn't to mull over the possibilities of what Beckett and Castle were up to at any given time, or common wanderings like if they had killed or married one another yet. No, someone else entirely was causing it.

_Jim Beckett..._

Each time he looked up in that direction, the sudden first meeting and strange conversation he'd had with Beckett's father would seep back into his mind, and it sure as hell wasn't going away. Tiredly rubbing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair and pushed himself away from the desk. Any effort to remain relatively above the burgeoning pile of work just wasn't happening any time soon.

Though the thought of whether he would ever meet Beckett's father crossed his mind from time to time, he honestly never figured he would. She was a private person, intensely protective of her life outside of work. Sure, Castle occasionally quipped that she was all work and no play- but he was right. Apart from a few times prior to Castle showing up, she practically lived and breathed an investigation, leaving whatever baggage she had at the door every time she stepped into the bullpen. And for that reason alone, Jim Beckett's sudden appearance was simply befuddling.

Then the elderly man had to go and ask about a Senator's murder and Beckett's involvement in the case to mess him up even more. Why did he care? Why would he show up for the first time just to ask about a murder investigation?

The sound of the elevator opening interrupted his thoughts.

Looking up, he caught sight of the stern looking Hollywood exec stepping out of the elevator. The elderly man's eyes trained directly on his destination, and without giving a single hint of cordiality to everyone around him, he rushed through the bullpen, slipping into the captain's office and promptly closed the blinds.

Esposito narrowed his eyes as he saw the silhouette of Montgomery get up to greet the middle-aged man, and something occurred to him. Everything was is normal working order until this man showed up and shuffled Beckett and Castle into the captain's office. For some reason, that day was when everything began to... skew a little.

Now that he thought about it, Beckett and Castle were incredibly subdued for two people who were apparently just informed that they were going on an all-expenses paid vacation to rub elbows with celebrities. He had seen them only once since then, and their mood wasn't all that chipper either. Come to think of it... the day Mister Hollywood Man pranced into the precinct was the day the media announced that Senator Burbury was found murdered.

Esposito shook his head, letting out an incredulous scoff at where his mind was going. It had to be nothing, really. It was just one of those weeks. Jim Beckett was just a concerned citizen.

Not a moment after that thought passed before his frown was back in full force. Jim Beckett, a concerned citizen, was asking about a murder investigation that he knew nothing of. He asked around about it- mentioned it to Karpowski and even a few of the rookies if they knew who was heading up that investigation. It was damn near the highest profile murder they have had in a few years and nobody seemed to know or care much about it. Yet, Beckett's father of all people wanted to know about the late Senator Alvin Burbury?

It couldn't mean anything... could it?

"Hey, Ryan..." Esposito began hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

Taking a deep breath, Esposito took one last look at the two silhouette's pacing around the captain's office.

"Now, this is going to sound stupid." He began, shifting forward in his chair. "But something happened yesterday, and I don't know what to think about it."

Instantly donning a look of intrigue, Ryan turned away from the computer's keyboard and crossed his arms. "Alright," he replied. "What's up?"

"Well, you see..." Esposito paused, not entirely sure on the best way to proceed. The things he was noticing since yesterday could just be coincidence- hell everything Jim Beckett said could have just been a simple case of misinterpretation- and error in translation. It was a dead senator he was asking about after all- tons of people tend to get attached to their politicians as though they were family. Maybe he was just grieving

_But what if he wasn't?_

It was a stretch, a feebly twined collage of coincidence embroidered by instinct. But, something just wasn't sitting well at all with him. Beckett dropping a case to be gone for days wasn't her at all. The strange Hollywood exec bounding into the precinct, without Castle or Beckett in tow, and straight to the captain's office wasn't normal either. Even the inquiry into Senator Burbury's murder and the subsequent void of details around the division wasn't like the 12th precinct at all- not to mention all of this was spurred by one simple question from none other than Beckett's dad.

"Come on, man. Spit it out." Ryan chuckled.

It was mystifying, absolutely silly to even be worrying over, but he had to ask. He had to follow his gut even if Beckett chewed his head off for it later. So he looked directly at his partner, and he asked the most important question he could think of.

"Has Jim Beckett ever been here before?"

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AN: Had to do a lot of editing on this one and I'm still pretty sure I didn't catch every spelling error. Fun fact: in the original outline of this story, this chapter ended with a scene of the conversation between Montgomery and Brooks that Esposito watches them having, as well as a very short cliffhanger of our mystery man taking another life.


	10. Grave of Opportunity

_AN: Wow, thank you guys so much for taking the time to leave a few words! I promise I'll reply to all of them. Seriously, any author here will tell you that it means more than we can possibly say._

_Here's the next revised chapter. I hope you enjoy!_

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**Chapter 10 – Grave of Opportunity**

_What if we're not?_

Feeling a little bewildered, Beckett gently laid her menu down in front of her and tried to gauge the sincerity of the famous author in front of her. Where was he going with this? Coonan made it pretty clear he was no saint, Vong wasn't that much better. But they were drug peddlers- there was no grand scheme for that line of work, no poetic ambition to strive for- it was all about money- money and power. That's all.

"If we're not?" she repeated. "Then what would that even mean?"

"I honestly don't know," he admitted. Though his expression turned thoughtful, a small grinned remained. "It's not every day you run across a drug cartel that has its members and friends put ideological Hallmark cards underneath their pillows."

"No kidding." Beckett gave a sigh.

He was right on that point. For all intents and purposes, there was no reason they should have found anything like that when dealing with someone like Johnny Vong. He was a peddler, nothing more than a con artist under the guise of a salesman. Fake ID's or counterfeited bills were more par for the course than a riddle, a code, whatever that slip of paper was. It made more sense for it to be something that connected his and Coonan's opium trade, something far more substantial to justify running _here_ to die. Something damning, something worth three murders and the career of an assistant District Attorney. That made sense. But this? Running down the country, sacrificing a life for a riddle with hints at a deeper, more unsettling modus operandi if Castle was right? It was peculiar to be sure, but that didn't mean there was any basis for it.

"Brooks didn't mention finding any message like this in the office or home of Senator Burbury, however." She mused, recalling pieces of the information the surly agent had given them.

"Right," Castle said with nod.

"So, if this was something of a sacred meaning to Rathborne," she said, pointing to the offending piece of paper still in her hand. "And if what you're gathering from it is that important to them- then wouldn't it be somewhere the Senator considered safe?"

Castle looked at her a moment. "Would you keep something around from the people who were going to kill you?"

"You have a point," she agreed. "But the message could be a whole host of things, right?"

"Right, but whatever the reason, it must have some sort of use."

"So what could it mean then?"

"Well, it could imply-"

"Hello guys!"

A smiling waitress cordially greeted the pair as she appeared next to the booth, stopping Castle's explanation abruptly.

"My name is Beth; have y'all picked anything out?" she said cheerily as she sat a small basket of homemade potato chips and two glasses of water down.

Giving Beckett a slow, apologetic smile, he turned his attention to the young waitress and slipped effortlessly into exchanging simple pleasantries with her as he began his order.

As his attention remained away from her discerning gaze, she searched his expression, giving herself time to mull over all that he had said in the past ten minutes. His words held an unsettling weight, crashing squarely down onto the already desperately held collage of certainties she had of the case, muddling it all the more. But still there, underneath the tremulous wash of nerves they instilled, was an abiding current of possibility- what if he was right? What if this wasn't just about drugs?

_Could this really be happening?_

Over the past few years together, she had learned to trust Castle's instinct, though somewhat begrudgingly at first. He was brilliant. He lived for this sort of intrigue- to lose himself in seemingly irrelevant quirks speckled over a case, leaving the evident extremes of black and white to simply be the result of whatever he found in the chasm of grey that tied them together. He was a storyteller, content in relishing in the unknown and giving it substance.

He was extraordinary- he was like her in more ways than a tiny voice inside her head tempted her to admit. And that's what made them work so well together. Feeding off of his passion for a good story came as easy as breathing, and no matter how crazy a case ever got, he always found a way to bring her back from the edge of frustration and bolster her resolve. And all the jokes and ribbing from Ryan and Esposito asides, there were times that she did wonder how they were able to finish each other's sentences so easily, so naturally. _He is special_, she smiled softly as she watched him let out a cute chuckle at-

_Wait a minute, _she hurriedly stopped herself. _Cute_?

"Ma'am...? Ma'am, what can I get for you?" a voice said, breaking into her thoughts.

Beckett looked up to see both Castle and the waitress peering at her expectantly.

"Oh..." Feeling strangely flustered, she took a furtive glance at the menu, none of its words registering at all. "I'll, um, get what he's having."

"Anyway, where was I?" Castle said as watched the waitress make her way to the back of the hall, then turned his gaze back to Beckett. His eyes remained pensive and unfocused for a moment as he brought the small glass of water to his lips.

"Ah yes... It could imply a whole host of things" He continued. "It may be a creed, a simple ideological motto for Rathborne's members."

"Words to live by exist in everybody's life," she reasoned.

"Yes. However, a creed exists for a reason." He explained, motioning his hands around in small circles. "It is the mortar and stone comprising the foundation of any belief, any sacred institution. It serves as a direct line to a universal commitment, no matter where the follower finds himself. So, it simply cannot be a coincidence it appeared. Somewhere in that sentence, there has to be a message important enough that Vong had to die so it could stay hidden."

"Like you said: there are layers to riddles, different meanings culminating to one binding answer." She took a quick sip of her water. "So you're implying that there is a larger reason to have this creed?

"Yes," he nodded firmly. "And that one binding answer is the largest piece of any question or puzzle- though often times it can be the hardest to see."

"Meaning?" She asked curiously.

His mouth opened hesitantly a few times as he looked directly at her. "I'm saying that what's on that piece of paper isn't the collective ideal of a drug cartel."

"So let me get this straight." Beckett paused a moment. "If what you're saying is true, then not only was the philanthropy that Dick Coonan did in Afghanistan a front for a major drug syndicate- but on top of that- the drug syndicate was a front for something else?"

She wanted to give Castle a chance to respond, to back up his theory with any irrefutable point, honestly she did. But this was a far cry from the run-of-the-mill flights of fancy he normally took during a case. This was incredulous to even consider being in the slightest realm of possibility.

"I'm sorry Castle, but listen to what you're saying." She put down her menu and quickly held up a hand. "People use covers when they do naughty things- not use naughty things to cover naughtier things."

Castle furrowed his brows for a moment, quirking his head to the side. "So, what about the man who mimicked my books?"

"Irrelevant." She panned.

"Irrelevant?" He gave her a curious look. "How is it irrelevant?"

"He murdered others to cover up another murder." Beckett reasoned. "What you are implying is an entirely different thing. Our copycat had a motive."

Castle looked at her silently for a moment. "And there is no rational motive for something like that to occur."

Beckett nodded firmly.

"So you're asking yourself what kind of motive would have to exist in order for Rathborne to create a drug cartel as a proxy." He finished contemplatively as he leaned back into the plushy booth.

She watched somewhat somberly as faint lines of a frown grew along his cheeks. It shouldn't have surprised her that he drew the very thoughts swirling in her mind and so readily vocalized them.

"Which brings us back to what he was doing here." He said.

Beckett nodded slowly. "Not to mention the passport he had." She said, holding up a finger as she continued. "Add the ticket to Florence, and everything points to one direction- he was running away."

She closed her eyes, trying to recall all of the bits and pieces of leads that surrounded Johnny Vong- from the silly motivational tapes to ominous phone call that led to him being dropped of all charges. He was their proverbial string leading them through the labyrinth, yet everything they've learned so far was too enigmatic, too random.

"I just can't shake the feeling that there's something I'm forgetting about Vong."

"Like something he left here, or something he said?" he asked as he picked up another French fry.

"Something he said." She mused. "It's probably nothing, honestly."

"Kate, I trust your instincts" he said reassuringly. "So if you think we're missing something here, we're not leaving until we find it."

She returned his comforting words with a warm smile. "I figured you would be dying to get back to New York, Castle. Going this long without lounging in the precinct has to be getting to you."

"Well, they do have excellent crab cakes here." He replied with a toothy grin. "Plus, the man has left us enough evid-"

Beckett suddenly held up her hand, interrupting him immediately.

"Evidence..." she suddenly interrupted.

"You took the words right out of my mouth, detective." Castle chuckled.

"Evidence!" she repeated, her eyes growing wide.

"Pardon?" He asked, looking around the dining hall.

"DeWitt." Beckett suddenly exclaimed, causing a few patrons of the restaurant to peer over to them. With one last look at the half-eaten appetizer in front of her, she promptly scooted out of the booth.

Looking utterly confused, Castle hesitantly followed suit and slid out of the booth as she hastily tried to slip her jacket back on. Cursing under her breath as one of her elbows caught awkwardly in a sleeve, her patience was quickly wearing thin. She fidgeted with the offending clothing where she stood when suddenly Castle lifted the arm of her jacket and she quickly slipped into it. Glancing at Castle as he threw a few twenty dollar bills on the table, she mumbled a quick 'thank you' and pulled her keys out of her jacket pocket. Not wanting to waste a moment longer, she dashed through the dining hall- hopefully with Castle somewhere behind her.

She was already falling into the driver's seat, jabbing her key into the ignition by the time Castle flung open the passenger's door.

"What's going on?" Castle fell into the passenger's side seat rather ungracefully the very moment she slammed the car in reverse.

"DeWitt," she said as the car roared headlong onto the sparsely populated main street, bouncing from side to side as its suspension haplessly tried to keep up with her.

"Marcus DeWitt." She repeated, not taking her eyes of the road.

"The name on Johnny Vong's Passport?" Castle shouted just over the rumbling wail of the engine.

"Grab the bar!" she said loudly, ignoring his question.

"The what?" Castle shouted looking wildly around him.

"The 'Oh Shit' bar, Castle!" One hand left the steering wheel, pointing directly to the other side of Castle. "Grab it now!"

The tiny blue rental car nearly tipped onto its side when she suddenly jerked the wheel right, sending an unbuckled Castle nearly toppling onto her. This wasn't her squad car by any stretch of the imagination, she had to remind herself- the whole of the car was jostling haplessly about, winding from line to dotted line and narrowly dodging other vehicles as she tried to regain control over it. The very moment the frantic motions of the car began to calm, she suddenly slammed on the brakes, letting out a heavy breath she didn't realize she was holding as she looked up at the tiny red light above her. She looked over to Castle, whose eyes seemed to be unfocused and abnormally dilated, as one of his hands slowly made its way up to the bar just above the door.

"Alright there, Castle?" She said as the light flashed green, turning her attention back to the road.

Biting her lip, she pretended not to hear the tiny squeak that precluded the sound of him exhaling rather quickly.

"Yes. Yes, I am." After a moment, he turned to her. "So, what does Marcus DeWitt have to do with anything? It was a fake name."

Taking her eyes off the road, she could practically feel her eyes sparkling as she looked over to her partner.

"Who said it was fake?" she said with a growing smile.

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Agent Brooks wasn't having a good day.

It was supposed to be his day off- the assistant director of the CIA practically begged him to take one. The day was supposed to be a good one- a slow, hearty breakfast in bed with his wife, kick the soccer ball around with his two sons for a little bit, then it was off to the lake for some beer and fishing with a few of his old war buddies.

Then that goddamned phone had to ring.

It couldn't just ring once like a _polite_ person would normally limit themselves to when no one picks up. No, it had to buzz with the ferocity of a thousand hornets three more times. He desperately hoped when he looked on the caller ID that it was just going to be a cursory call for updates, just another routine to do before he could take a break.

Then the assistant director of the CIA had to drop a bombshell all over his plans.

So he found himself not an hour later, impatiently glancing from his watch to the sluggishly moving white numbers above the elevator door to the 12th precinct. In one hand, his undoubtedly cold breakfast mournfully waited in a small brown sack; in his other hand, a small manila folder with 'Confidential' stamped in an odd angle across it. How was he going to break this news? Hell, when was he going to get a chance to eat for that matter?

The dinging sound of the elevator signaled his arrival. The moment the doors opened up he angrily pushed through the clump of people in front of him. Not caring to form any sort of apology, he lumbered through the bullpen and straight to the captain's office.

He slammed the door behind him, ready to discuss this new development with Captain Montgomery, not noticing the blinds jostle from the force, or the two very suspicious sets of eyes still trained on him.

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Sheriff Dan Teague looked on from his plushy office with a curious frown as he watched the two FBI agents talking animatedly with the front desk clerk. Both looked like a cross between being utterly winded and bursting at the seams with giddiness

_Marriage does have a way of pulling you in two directions at once,_ he mused, looking down at the large golden ring on his left hand with a grin. They did look happy though- cute couple.

The clerk pointed back to him and he saw the agents nod thankfully just as they began to make their way to his office. They knocked on the door and each gave him a small wave as they made their way in.

"Evening, Mrs. Rook, Mr. Rook." He stood up and cordially shook their hands. "What can I do for you today?"

The couple looked at one another for a moment then nodded.

"You ran Johnny Vong through the database." The dark-haired man said.

"Yes, sir." The sheriff replied and sat back down. "Still kind of surprised you guys were already on the way here too. Come to think of it, should I call the both of you Agent Rook? You two don't mind if I use your first names, do you?"

"Call me Jameson," the man replied as he looked over to his wife with a curious glint in his eyes.

"Nikki is perfectly fine," the lady said with a tight smile.

"Works for me. So what have you got?"

"Well, after going over the evidence found on the body again, we thought of something that might help." The brown-haired woman explained. "Since we can safely assume Vong knew he was on the run, we are pretty sure that he came down here to Savannah for a good reason."

"I agree. There has to be something that ties him to this area." The sheriff said, motioning his hands for them to continue.

"Well, we were wondering..." The man's explanation trailed away as he looked over to his wife.

"Have you run the name Marcus DeWitt as well?"

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AN: Chapter 32 is done and I'll be starting up 33 tomorrow! By the time it is posted and depending on the additions to the revised chapters, this story will be close to or breaking the 150,000 word milestone.


	11. Burying the Hatchet

Chapter 11 – Burying the Hatchet

_Come on, Beckett. Pick up…_

Esposito tenuously held the phone in his hand for what seemed like the tenth time that morning. She didn't answer again. If it were any other person, he wouldn't even begin to dwell on it. The problem was that he knew her all too well. Beckett was unceremoniously joined to her phone no matter what hour he had ever called in a new murder; always answering in that clipped yet undeniably eager tone, always ready to begin a case. More importantly, however, was the fact that she was always there.

The line went to voicemail. Cursing under his breath, he dropped the phone to his lap.

"No answer?" Ryan said, looking up from a file Karpowski had thrown on his lap minutes ago.

"Nope," was his increasingly frustrated reply.

Both detectives looked over to the captain's office; the door was open and inviting again, all traces of the surly looking Hollywood producer were gone now- well, for the most part. The captain was busying himself, hunched over a small manila folder, rubbing the creases of his brow in apparent agitation. There was lettering stamped across its front, big, bold letters that even a child could discern.

_Confidential, huh?_

"Hey Ryan." Esposito called quietly, his eyes furrowed suspiciously on the small folder beneath their dour looking captain.

The sound of Ryan's chair scratching along the linoleum beside him met his ears. His partner leaned forward into his field of vision, quickly turning to follow Esposito's baleful stare.

"The folder?" Ryan whispered.

"Yep." Esposito clipped. "Recognize it?"

"Oh, yeah." He shrugged. "That's the same one Mr. Hollywood brought in."

He leaned to his side, careful to make sure no one, not even a fly could pick up on their conversation. "Look closer."

"Confidential?" Ryan said unsurely after a moment.

He grumbled lowly, nodding towards the offending folder. "Ever known a Hollywood guy to carry around something like that?"

"Um…" Ryan started, glancing around the bullpen as he leaned back in his chair. "Never met one?"

"Yeah me neither," Esposito smirked slightly. "But, I would bet that what's in that folder isn't some top secret script they need the captain to edit."

"You're not thinking that has something to do with Beckett, do you?"

"Kate or her dad?" Esposito replied.

His partner frowned.

"…Both?" Ryan shrugged.

"Maybe it does." Esposito paused a moment. "I- I don't know."

"Look," Ryan held a cautioning hand up and quickly sat forward. "I know things have been kind of screwy here the past week, and this workload is more depressing than a Knicks game, but think about what you're saying."

"You have to admit it makes sense, man." Esposito gave him a pointed look.

"Well…" Ryan's voice trailed off as he scratched the back of his head. "Yes, it… no! No, it doesn't make sense. Why in the hell would Beckett and Castle be working the Burbury case undercover? I mean it just doesn't-"

"We had this talk already," Esposito cut him off. "Everything started with that day, and that producer guy. Everything. Ever since Castle and Beckett walked out of that office and bolted straight outta here to Cali, bro. Everything from the captain putting Karpowski over us, to Beckett's silent treatment- things have been like something out of a Bond movie ever since that guy showed up- it's all cloak and dagger."

"But, there has to be…" Ryan paused, casting his eyes down to the floor with a troubled frown.

Esposito looked down to the phone still tightly in his grip. There were a few things that could explain everything that was going on, and in all honesty, he would gladly welcome the notion it has all been just one giant misunderstanding. Well, that or a very prolonged case of the Mondays. Anything would suffice over incessant voice in his head to find out more.

"So do you see what I'm thinking?" Esposito asked.

"That Mr. Hollywood probably hasn't even been there? That Beckett and Castle are on the Burbury case?" Ryan raised a questioning brow to him. "If that's what you're thinking, then yes. But, what can we do about it?"

_Right in one._

That was the problem, he mused as he warily slumped back in his chair. What could they do? Just go up to the captain and ask? That would be shot down in the blink of an eye. The folder still captivating all of Montgomery's time had confidential written on it for a reason- and likely one hell of a reason at that. They didn't want prying eyes or loose tongues on this one; but why?

He had to talk to Beckett. Now.

_One more time_, he resolved as he pressed the auto-dial on his cell phone for Beckett. Holding the phone up to his ear, he sighed heavily as the first melodious notes of her ring tone fluttered in his ears. As the familiar song played, he scanned around the bullpen, his eyes glancing from person to room-

Then at once, a bundle of nerves ignited in his gut. His wandering eyes caught sight of Captain Montgomery shifting in his seat, the elderly man's brows creasing tiredly as he peered down at the drawers of his desk. Then, he pulled out a small phone from one of the drawers as he turned his attention back to the desk.

_What the…_

Esposito looked on seized in bewilderment when the captain pressed his thumb to the faceplate on the phone just as the dial tone died in his ear.

In a flash, Esposito shot from his chair. Pushing his way through a few hapless officers, he stormed up to the captain's front door. _Keep your cool_, he forcefully reminded himself. _He's your friend_, became his mantra.

"Captain," Esposito softly knocked on the side of the open door and leaned into Montgomery's office. "You got a moment?"

Not looking up, Montgomery nodded slowly and motioned him in with an absent wave of his hand.

"Sir," he began hesitantly. "Something happened the other day. I know it's probably not much, and we're kind of busy around here today, but it's really bothering-"

Montgomery held his hand up. "What is it, Javier?"

"Well… Sir, it's about Beckett's father."

"Come again?" The captain replied, his face finally lifting to meet him.

"Jim Beckett." Esposito said as he motioned towards Beckett's empty desk.

"He was here?" The surprise was evident on the captain's face.

Closing the door behind him, he took in the weighty air suddenly pressing all around him, feeling the captain's inquisitive gaze boring into his back. He took a long, deep breath. He had to stay focused no matter what happened now, even if there was a possibility that his day was about to get a whole lot worse.

"They're not in Hollywood, are they, sir." He said as he turned around, immediately noticing the offending confidential manila folder was now buried under a haphazardly layered stack of papers.

Montgomery's eyes shifted down to the stack for a moment, then chuckle mirthfully. "Of course they, Javier! Afraid they aren't going to bring you back any souvenirs-"

"-He asked about Alvin Burbury, sir." Esposito interjected.

For all his years on the force, all the intensive training and interrogating the most hardened criminals of his day, Captain Montgomery's impassable demeanor cracked at the seams for a mere whisper of time, his eyes widening, his jaw seizing tightly as Esposito's words floated tenuously in the air.

"Maybe he was just a concerned citizen, Esposito." The captain settled back into his passive tone.

Esposito deftly slipped his hand into his pocket and blindly led his finger through what had become a routine throughout the day, pressing each key one by one as the captain talked about some of the stories he had heard from Beckett about California.

"… Hell, just the other day, Castle actually dragged her to Disneyland."

"Captain," Esposito said calmly. "I know you're trying to protect whatever is going on, and I respect that. But those two- just like you- are my family."

"Javier," Montgomery started.

"Captain," he interrupted again, as he pressed the final key on his phone. "If they're in trouble, if her father is in trouble, I just can't sit idly by and wait… What is going on, sir?"

The tone in his voice was firm, delivered with a tempered finality he normally reserved for the interrogation room. Though the man in front of him was his boss, and for all intents, one of his best friends, a very insistent part of him wasn't going to allow him to proceed delicately. Something had happened the day Alvin Burbury was killed- something that caused Jim Beckett to crack right before his eyes. He had to know. He had to help them if he could.

Then, a small dainty melody lifted through the thick mahogany desk. The captain looked at him silently as the music continued for what seemed an eternity, and Esposito briefly felt a pang of guilt as the captain's stony demeanor washed away to a sobering dim.

"I told them you two would pick up on it." Montgomery noted solemnly.

He slowly stood up from his chair and leaned tiredly on his desk. Shifting his weight to one side, he reached down for something in its wide middle drawer, and after a moment, his hand returned to view. In it, a very familiar looking phone resting squarely in his palm.

"I told them one of you would start calling." he said as he stared down at the phone. "She insisted that not answering her phone would make you guys even more suspicious. I guess she was right."

"Call Ryan in here, Javier…" He said softly, looking up to the detective with a grim expression.

Esposito quietly nodded as he opened the door. He tilted out of the room and caught sight of his partner looking on with curious expression. With a small motion of his hands, Ryan quickly got up and made his way to tiny, sunlit room. Ryan took one tentative look at him as he shut the door behind him, and then turned to the expectant looking captain.

"What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room. Are we clear?"

The detectives nodded instantly.

"Alright." Sucking in a deep breath, the captain continued. "How much do you two know about the Johanna Beckett case?"

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"So," Sheriff Teague said with a low drawl. "Could you two run that by me again?"

The sheriff had returned back to his office, albeit for just a moment. His eyes still scanning again and again over a small notepad in one hand as his other promptly fished out at least the fifth piece of gum he'd eaten in the past hour before somehow feeding it through his pursed lips.

Beckett looked to Castle and gave a small nod as she relaxed into the plushy chair- it was his turn to run with the story, anyway.

"We think the passport is real." Castle said simply.

"So you think that his driver's license is the fake one?" Sheriff Teague exchanged glances with both of them. "I thought you two said that Johnny Vong was the person you were after when you came down here."

"Well," Castle began. "We weren't exactly aware that he went by anything but that at first."

"What changed your minds then?"

"He mentioned during our initial interrogation with him that Johnny Vong actually wasn't even his real name." Castle replied and nodded towards the notepad in the sheriff's hand.

"You're looking at a few of the things we remember from that interrogation." The author explained as he shifted in his seat. "It's not much, but it's the best we can do until we can contact our boss again."

The sheriff scratched his chin as he kept his eyes on the notes. "Damn, he went to Harvard? What the hell is an Ivy League man doing winding up in my town on the wrong side of a hit job?"

"Well, that's where we were stuck." Castle said, and then motioned over to Beckett. "To be frank, it made absolutely no sense that Vong would come to a place as random and as out of the way as Savannah."

"He knew he was a dead man," he continued. "There's no question about it. The amount of cash said everything. His flight away from New York is perfectly logical. Anyone under similar circumstances would probably do the same. However he arrived here, and that's where all the rationality seemed to end."

"For a man on the run, the contents of his pockets were essentially useless considering his actions." Beckett added. "Why would you bring a passport with you- why would you keep it on you- when you're not even leaving the country? Surely he must have realized that he stood a better chance of fading from existence and eluding whoever was chasing him outside of the country."

"So, then comes my personal favorite, the one-way ticket to Florence." Castle said with a small smile. "Of all of the evidence found on Johnny Vong- or whoever he is- this one thing made little to no sense."

Beckett nodded quickly and stood up. She casually paced around the room as a voice inside her head that oddly sounded quite a lot like Castle began to weave a story. "He had two tickets on him- both from New York; yet one to Atlanta and one to Florence. The way I see it is if nothing else, Vong was a consummate businessman, someone that surely knew the ins and outs of traveling. He definitely would have known that there are non-commercial flights from New York that come straight to here, giving him precious amounts of time that any man or woman in his position would die for."

"Excellent pun." she heard Castle whisper in her ear as he joined her by her side and continued where she left off. "And that's not even considering the possibilities of what made him decided to drive from Atlanta to here."

"Alright, so why is the passport important then?" The sheriff looked up from his notes.

Castle smiled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "All of the strange behavior- the flights, the cash- it pointedly concludes he was here for a reason."

"For all we knew at the time, we naturally assumed Vong was close to a lifelong resident of New York, barring his stay at Harvard, of course." Castle said. "But then, my wife remembered a rather sudden admission he gave during our first interrogation with him- he was living under an alias."

"It didn't really mean anything at the time," Beckett spoke up, recalling the event in question. _What a fun day that was._

"We were preoccupied with…" she paused, looking over to Castle. "Well, a more personal matter landed in our laps. Vong was our only shot at closing a longstanding case, and there was much more vital information that we were forced to dwell on."

"I understand." The sheriff said sympathetically, motioning for them to continue.

"So, we decided to look at the actions of Johnny Vong a little differently." Castle said as he glanced to her. "What if Johnny Vong wasn't running away?"

"What if Johnny Vong was coming home?" Beckett finished.

The sheriff was silent for some time, looking between the pair. "You think Marcus DeWitt is Johnny Vong?"

"If it's not him, I'm willing to bet my pension it's a relative." Kate replied firmly.

Sheriff Teague smiled slowly, and then put the notepad in the sleeve of his shirt. "Well, my boys should have the results of that name search for you in a few minutes. Just sit tight and I'll be right back."

As the sheriff made a hasty beeline back to the room adjoining his office, Beckett mulled over everything they had uncovered about Vong. This had to be it, she thought, this had to be the single, binding thread that made it all sensible again.

Giving a small sigh, she looked out of the office towards the file room. Even through the shoddy set of Venetian blinds that were partially obscuring Beckett's view from hers and Castle's vantage point, the confusion on Sheriff Teague's face was hard to miss as he towered over a very lost looking clerk. She honestly felt a little bad for the assistant- it was a strange request by any stretch, no matter if it was in a big city or a quiet town like this. False identities were as messy to resolve as they were to uncover. Now, she thought as she shifted in her chair, the next move would come solely on whatever the sheriff came back with.

"How did we not catch this, Castle?" she suddenly spoke up.

"DeWitt, the passport, the alias." She made a motion with her hands. "We've been over the life story of Johnny Vong for the better part of a week and only now we remembered the interrogation. His file was right in front of me and I still didn't catch it."

"So you're wondering why it took us this long to find his name." Castle ventured, tilting his head slightly.

"That's the thing…" she nodded, trying her best to ignore the slight pang of confusion. "I don't recall seeing his real name on his record. I'm certain I would have caught that."

"His record?"

"Yeah," she whispered again. "That night we snuck into the precinct. I honestly only remember seeing the name 'Johnny Vong'- no aliases. I didn't think anything of it. Honestly, I'm not even sure why it took me this long to remember what he said."

"Kate," Castle chuckled, halting her rambling. "We were in kind of a rush that night, and we had a bigger goal in mind, one I might add that took us straight to where we are now."

"True, but that still doesn't take away from the fact that his real name wasn't on there," she replied.

"You don't think…"

"That it was tampered?" Beckett said. "I… I don't know. There is a dead Senator that was a card-carrying member of Rathborne on our hands, and so it's certainly in the realm of possibility that other members in the city that could easily ensure that things like this happen."

"And remember what he admitted during his interrogation?" She whispered as she leaned toward him. "When we started feeling the pressure, he admitted that he had an alias almost as though it was an afterthought."

"And somehow, it's not even on his record." Castle shook his head. "We need to get in touch with Brooks when-"

Whatever Castle was about to say was quickly cut off when the sheriff came walking slowly back into the room.

"Well, Mrs. Rook," Sheriff Teague said as he held up a single sheet of paper. "Your theory was right."

Beckett and Castle instantly stepped forward towards the sheriff as he continued. "We ran all of the information found on the passport through the database and, well… it was a match with a local resident."

The sheriff sighed loudly as he handed Castle the sheet of paper. "Marcus J. DeWitt: born March 15th, 1970. Twin brother named Michael J. DeWitt."

Her eyes widened instantly at the information.

"He had a brother?" she exclaimed, standing on the tips of her toes as she tried to peer on to the paper.

"Where is he now?" she asked.

"Oh, he's still here." The sheriff said mirthlessly and made his way rather sullenly over to his desk.

"I guess we're going to pay him a visit then?" she asked, perhaps a little more happily than needed.

"No, I don't think we are." Castle said with a frown. "Marcus DeWitt died on February 6th, 1991."

"He's, wait… what?" she stuttered. "No. No, that can't be right."

Grabbing the rap sheet from Castle's hands, Beckett's eyes quickly scanned over the profile, the fear of winding down another dead end was beginning to seep in. Surely, there had to be something, she thought frantically as she skimmed over the man's biography.

_Old Rose Hill Estate…_

"Take us to this residence." She said shortly, leaving absolutely no room for protests.

"You think that was his destination?" Castle turned to her excitedly.

"Well," she said contemplatively. "It would explain the drive from Atlanta."

"And definitely answers his tie to the area," Castle said, stepping closer to her.

"So that means he was on his way there to find something…" she said with a donning grin.

"…Or someone." He added quickly, raising his finger in the air.

"And he tried to cover his tracks with the flight to Atlanta instead coming straight here." She continued.

"He didn't want whoever was following him to know something about this place." The author's stared intently at her.

"And that house probably holds it." She finished. A rush of excitement flowed through her and practically screamed at her to find the nearest vehicle. Yet her feet were still rooted in place as she continued to beam at her partner, relishing in the feeling that had so often accompanied their brainstorming chats. For a moment though, a different feeling began to bubble to the surface as Castle smiled down at her with… pride?

The sheriff gave a hearty chuckle. "Are you two lovebirds always like this?"

"What can I say, Sheriff…" Castle responded in a soft timbre that instantly piqued her attention.

Looking over to smiling author, she went to reply, but found her breath faintly catching in her throat when she felt the smooth surface of his hand tenderly slide down her forearm, leaving a wake of trembling nerves on his path. For a reason ever distancing further and further from her mind, she couldn't bring herself to look away, nor shy away from his touch as she felt him gently turn her hand over and twine his fingers into her open, welcoming hand.

_What the hell is going on with me?_

"…We're good for each other."

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Eric Engelmann blew out a tired sigh the moment he heard the latch of his office door catch behind him. The Senate Armed Services Committee's impromptu meeting was as rushed of an affair as it was utterly depressing.

Aides and lobbyists alike had been swarming around him and his fellow members like bloodthirsty vultures all morning. The army of reporters hadn't been much more accommodating for the past 3 days. The very moment he left his home, they were already pecking away at him. What do you know, who is taking the reins, and how does this affect… how does this affect…

_On behalf of my colleagues and my family, I wish to offer my condolences to the family and friends of Alvin Burbury_…

It didn't matter who gave the statement, big wigs with passion or whipping boys with teleprompters, each time one of them emerged from whatever self-erected bubble they'd been in since 4:00am this morning the frenzy for information would pique all over again. The statement would fill the capitol rotunda once more. The questions would spin anew.

_We are deeply saddened by the loss of a statesman of such clout and integrity…_

The machine of politics wouldn't allow a moment of bereavement. Vacancies, very powerful and sought-after appointments had to be made. One in particular was the cause of this morning's chaos. Snakes and lions alike had been maneuvering, posturing, ever since the story broke. And somehow, the late Alvin Burbury had suddenly become the martyr for every cause that might catapult those sycophants closer to his empty seat.

_A Senator, a dear friend, was murdered. Let me make myself clear. We will stand united, inexhaustible and firm until the perpetrators of this heinous crime are brought to justice._

The meeting ended within minutes, with members of both parties falling just a few red-faced glares short of accusing the other side of conspiracy- of treason. It was just a game of innocent grandstanding, ploys to take what Burbury had left behind, he knew it and they knew it. It had to be done though. The first pawns had to be moved. A new chairman had to be appointed.

Both parties vied for his opinions, though not an ear caught them. They knew to look elsewhere if they were looking for promises, deals. They were far too busy concocting all the ways to turn this murder into a political goldmine.

For that reason alone, he should've known that his name would be whispered among both parties. He was the backbone, the immovable middle between two sides symmetrical in every way, but desperate to convince the world they were dichotomies. And now they wanted him to take Burbury's job as chairman of the committee.

He plopped down into his chair and took of his glasses. As he rubbed the bridge of his nose, something caught his eye. Slipping his spectacles back on, he looked down to a simple unmarked envelope lying in the center of his desk.

Curious, he picked up the envelope, turning it around a few times in his hand, trying to decipher who it was from. It was large, slightly thick- its contents were perhaps 10 pages at most- its weight and dimension were comparable to the rather verbose memos from his aide back in his home state.

He opened its seal and pulled out the document. His heart immediately dropped to his stomach.

"Senator Engelmann?"

He glanced up to the door to see his secretary, Bridgette, peeking in with her typically rosy and cheerful aplomb.

"Ms. Harris?" He said somewhat too harshly as he slipped the letter in his inner jacket pocket. "I told you to cancel absolutely everything for the next hour."

Her face disappeared behind the door a moment. Her whispers barely met his ears. Then another voice filtered through the cracked door. Not a moment later, the top of her head reappeared as she slowly opened his door.

She wasn't smiling.

"Senator" she said stiffly, apologetically. "You have a visitor."

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The drive was a lot longer than she expected, not to mention quite a bumpy one too. The winding loose gravel road had been jostling the sheriff's SUV around for the past ten minutes; at least the countryside was incredibly scenic. Put together with being taxied by the sheriff himself, it was more than enough to let her mind wander away for a while.

Feeling a strange rush of bashfulness, she quickly glanced over to Castle to make sure it was safe, securing her nerves in the prospect that he would not notice what desperately needed to be a very long, inquisitive stare. The author was busy looking out his window, smiling fondly as they passed a large field spotted with cows varying in shapes and sizes.

..._Perfect_.

As she looked on, she absently ran her hand along her forearm, allowing her mind to wander back to the bubbling wave of nerves she felt when Castle took her hand. It wasn't the first time he had done that, nor was it the first time a rush of nerves swelled through her at just the slightest brush of his touch. But it was enough to make her pause, to make her decide some miles back that she could not avoid the interrogation her brain wanted to give her heart any more.

Something was happening… something was changing between them. Though Castle's mere appearance into her life had shaken things up, what she was feeling was something entirely different, something immeasurably more urgent and important. Sure, they had always traded playful banter, volleyed many flirt-laden comebacks here and there, but when did it burrow so deeply into the very fabric of her being that, somewhere between that first tentative hello to this very moment, her very way of life, her hardened, singularly focused life she so adamantly never veered from began to change course.

And she liked it. She liked him all the more for it.

The calls of reassurance began to hold a little more depth somewhere over their partnership. The breadth of trust they showed to one another became a little broader, more immovable. Her world began to open a little wider, illuminating with a little more color each time he walked into the precinct with a new theory. And now, after all of the ups and downs they had experienced together, their friendship and grown into something much more sacred, something deeper than she dared admit.

Yet there was little point in denying the feeling any more, whatever and however deep it was. The tugging sensation grappling her heart was too strong, the attraction gravitating her closer and closer to him seemed fated more and more as each memory of their time together passed through her thoughts.

So, maybe they were right. Maybe all of those strange, out-of-the-blue comments on their relationship were tell-tale signs she was far too stubborn to see at first. And Lanie, for all her ribbing, called it as much as she didn't want to admit it. Maybe this was the wake up call, the first step in a long, unexpected dance for her. For them.

The only question that remained was how she would proceed.

"We're here." Sheriff Teague announced.

Forcing her eyes to leave Castle, she glanced up to the rearview mirror to see the sheriff pointing towards a large white house some ways in the distance. As they drove closer to the house, she focused back on the task at hand and pulled her gun from its holster.

"Do you think we'll need that?" Castle asked hesitantly.

"You forgot to bring yours?"

Castle nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on her Beretta as she removed the clip to double-check the number of cartridges before slapping it back in.

"You can never be too cautious." She smiled and lifted her pants leg to reveal a small, stub-nose pistol and handed it over to him.

The SUV slowly came to a stop within a small walking distance from the ornate, old house. The plantation was surrounded by smaller buildings: a worn old barn bereft of doors sat in a small dip in the middle of a hilly field far in the distance; a garage no more than ten yards to the right of the house was barren and dark; a simple tool shed sitting well away from the garage; a smaller one-story house on the other side of the massive cul-de-sac that ended at the plantations front door. As worn down as it was, it still was an impressive site to behold.

"Alright," the sheriff said as he turned off the vehicle. "Where do we start?"

Beckett looked around the lifeless expanse, mentally shaking away a plume of jitters that curiously made its presence known. Something was off, to be sure, but that was to be expected- it's not everyday you have to retrace the final days of a dead man.

"We'll start with the house." She said as she looked over to Castle, who met her gaze with a growing smile. "We'll get to those other buildings within the hour."

"Good deal," Sheriff Teague said happily and reclined in his seat. "I'll be here if you need me. Good luck in there you guys."

"Thank you, we'll find DeWitt in no- wait…" her eyes narrowed to an area over the lush field as she could have sworn she saw a fleeting glint of sunlight reflect their way.

"Sheriff, did you see th-"

Her words died away as her eyes trained to a small flash of light bursting out from the gloom of the rusty shed some ways from their vehicle. Her throat constricted, silencing a cry of alarm as the steely, tinted window behind Castle exploded in a shower of glass and deafening gunfire.

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AN: Rose Hill is actually the name of an old plantation in Milledgeville that is said to be haunted- so there's a little bit of fun Georgia trivia for you! Fun fact: This chapter was originally expected to be 5 scenes. The new scene in this chapter was omitted because the character, Eric Engelmann, doesn't reappear again for another 30 chapters. It has been added back in because this chapter is really the only proper place he can be introduced easily without complicating continuity.


	12. The Power of Suggestion

AN: On a quick side note: If you haven't read Chapter 11, **please do so first**. A new scene was added. Also, the next update will be on Thursday. I will be away from the computer will all my story files until then, so I apologize in advance.

Here's the new chapter! See you guys on Thursday!

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Chapter 12 – The Power of Suggestion

The jolting chorus of glass disintegrating and gunfire bellowing in his ears came first, and then, chaos erupted.

It felt as though a thousand needles crashed into his back all at once. And right before his eyes slammed shut, wincing together in pain, he saw a cascade of glass, glinting in the midday sun as it crackled into thousands of diminutive pieces, rushing over him in one great swarm.

"Castle!" he heard Beckett scream right as he felt himself being jerked forward. Beckett's hand gripped his shirt tightly, forcing him down onto the seat, and he immediately felt her dive on top of him. It took only the span of a deep, shuddering breath for him to realize he wasn't dead, and when the next few shots blazed into the vehicle, it was far from over.

Quickly scouring for the stub-nosed gun that flew haplessly from his lap, his hand blindly shuffled around the floorboard, over the countless splinters of glass until he felt the cold surface of its barrel.

_Keep her safe!_

The intensity of fire grew; slamming violently into the vehicle in sudden, deafening thrums. He wanted to end it, to get both of them to some semblance of better protection- but Beckett was moving restlessly over him, squeezing down tighter and tighter onto his back each time a new shot rang out. Focusing his thoughts, he pressed his foot to the door, clenching his teeth through the pain sweeping over his lower back as he stretched towards the elusive pistol. His fingers clamored frantically over it, errantly pricking into stray window slivers as he desperately tried to pull it into his grasp.

He heard the hollow click of a door open, and somewhere in the muddle of noise pouring over the ringing in his ears, the sheriff began shouting.

"Where is he? Damnit, I can't see him!"

"I don't know! He's got to be- Castle!" Beckett shouted, probably not realizing her mouth was mere inches from his ear. "Castle, are you alright?"

"I think so…" he said, giving an experimental twist from side to side.

"Come on!" Beckett shouted as he felt her slowly slide off of him. He peered up to see her slouched over, backing out of her side door as both her hands gripped tightly around her gun, trained to some unknown point behind him.

"If you haven't noticed, Detective," Castle grunted as slowly crawled towards the open door. "I kind of have to take my time, go a little… slower, you see. Cause, right now it feels like I have about a thousand shards of that window stuck to every square inch of my a-"

BOOM!

Castle immediately threw his arms over his head as Beckett's gun roared to life inches above his back.

Then everything seemed to go silent. His mind raced to make sense of what was going on, to look for a reason why the noise had ended, yet only received its pitched reverberations in his ears for answers. For a few tense moments, the thought that it might be over fleeted across his mind.

Then he felt Beckett grab hold of his hand.

"Hurry, Castle!" She implored as she unloaded another volley of shots into a focused direction.

"I am! I am!" he said quickly. Hoisting himself up on his elbows, he shuffled his way towards the door. He glanced up towards his destination only to meet Beckett's eyes inches from his, flaring with the dire focus she normally reserved for breaking criminals. She motioned her head towards the rear of the vehicle and promptly slipped out of view. Sliding head first from the lofty seat, he fell gracelessly onto the graveled patch of driveway and immediately shuffled over to Beckett, pressing himself firmly against the wide back wheel. Squeezing the handle of his pistol, he brought it close to his shoulder, ready to fire at the first thing that came around at them.

_Stay down. Cover her._

"There he is!" he heard the sheriff shout, sheltered somewhere on the other side of the open door. "He's going into the house! Dispatch, this is 0323- shots fired at Rose Hill, requesting immediate backup!"

With a tentative glance to what little he could see of the field, Castle craned his neck and shifted onto his knees. Slowly and nervously, he lifted his head, peering to the bullet-riddled door and through the jagged hole where his window used to be. His eyes widened immediately when he caught sight of a lone figure bounding from the shed, his gun still trained on them as he rushed towards a small side door of the house.

_Wait a minute_…

Closing his eyes, he replayed the image of the gunman over in his head. It was a familiar gait, one honed in trails by fire, one that even occasionally made an appearance in his stories. The move screamed military- never straying from the target, ever on the move. It was precisioned to counter aggression with death; it was professional in every manner of the word. Could this be him, he wondered, coincidence or not- could this be Burbury's and Vong's killer?

No more than a second passed from that thought when he found himself quickly springing to his feet, following Beckett's pounding steps through rising plumes of red dust as she ran headlong down what suddenly felt like a very open driveway.

"Right behind you!" he yelled.

Racing down the driveway, Castle kept his eyes trained on the imposing mansion, half expecting the gunman to open fire from any of the dozens of windows surrounding it. He had been to places like this before, sometimes on vacation, sometimes as a mere passer-by looking for a small reprieve after an exhaustive book tour. The design was typical: ornate, lavish, and replete with Victorian accents. From its multiple porches and balconies, to its beautifully designed angles and heights, for once he did not see any sort of beauty to it at all. For each time his eyes rifled from window to ledge, all he could see was another ample source for the gunman to fire down upon them.

It was a chance ripe with peril, the sort of scenes he'd wandered through so many times in his head, meticulously crafting and colliding words. Sweeping strokes of feverish images together to form a nerve-wracking crescendo, the perfect moment- the peak before the plunge, he called it. But here, hurriedly keeping pace with Beckett as they broached further and further into the long shadow of the mansion, there was no embellishment his mind could conjure, no way to convey his heightened sense of mortality- just an ever stretching plot of land, where every step closer felt heavier, unfurling with sensation fathomed and measured only by the pounding rhythm of his own heart.

"I'll take the side." Beckett said as she took a sharp turn onto the manicured lawn, running straight towards the door the gunman was last seen. In one fluid motion, she released the empty clip from her gun and reached into her pocket for a new one. Motioning towards the door, they moved under a looming oak tree, its branches draped in moss, yards away from the side of the house- at least it was cover for a few feet..

Their pace slowed as they passed the shed. Castle's eyes immediately drew to a few large holes dotting around the sill its far left window. Beckett's handiwork, he mused. The moment they reached the door, Beckett threw herself against the wall nearest to its handle, her gun raised readily by her side.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, he leaned against the wall, looking back towards the SUV in the distance. Well, perhaps a hundred feet or so, he mused. A small chuckle escaped his lips- it certainly seemed quite further away running from it.

"Well that was fun," he said quietly.

"Ready for round two?" Beckett cast a small smile at him.

"As I will ever be." He said with a smile of his own, gesturing towards the door with his pistol.

"Take the front porch," she said hurriedly, slapping the new clip into her gun.

"The front porch?" Castle whispered, blinking owlishly as he looked around. "This thing has to have more front porches than I have ex-wives."

Beckett rolled her eyes. "That way, Castle." She extended her arm over his shoulder, pointing around behind him.

"Oh, gotcha."

Beckett let out a deep sigh and reached for the door. Twisting the door knob, she pushed open the door and snapped back behind the wall. After a moment of silence, she leaned towards the threshold and peered in.

"Clear."

She pushed herself forward, turning away from the wall and quickly training both the barrel of her gun and her smoky brown eyes on the open door. Her first food landed on the lone step to the threshold, when she suddenly stopped. Slowly bringing her gun down to her waist, she turned to face him with an unreadable expression.

"Cas- Rick," she stared at him intently. "Be careful… okay?"

For some reason quickly escaping him, he didn't exactly know how to reply. Something deep and glimmering was shifting to life in her eyes, something that looked beyond the mere reflection of concern or worry she held so many times. It was enough to render him speechless, and untrusting of his own ever-inspired instincts. Unable to take his eyes off hers, he simply nodded his reply.

He was wrested from his thoughts when she smiled softly and turned back to the door.

"Wait!" Castle exclaimed, causing her to stop again. He searched for something to say, something to keep her there just a little bit longer.

"I've got your back, Kate." He said without a hint of doubt. "I won't let you down."

Her eyes lingered a moment on him. "You never have, Rick. We make a great team."

With that, she nodded and slipped fluidly into the house.

Lost in thought, he allowed his feet to carry him towards his instructed destination. With the images of Beckett's mysterious expression still fresh in his mind, he hopped up the staircase to the encircling front porch and made his way to the door. A mantra of questions filled him as he reached for the door, and absolutely none of them had to do with the case. So entrenched in his own wanderings, he didn't realize his hand was already opening the door until his feet stepped over the threshold and he caught sight of a figure right in front of him. His heart promptly lodged in his throat, and before he realized what he was doing, his arm shot up in defense.

Two rounds erupted from his gun, dead on target. He closed his eyes somewhere in the chaos, expectantly awaiting the return fire, preparing himself to feel the white-hot sting of lead slamming into his body. But it never came.

Cracking open his eyes, he felt his nerves fall away from his shoulder. His arms fell limply to his sides as he let out an exasperated sigh of relief. Ahead of him, standing resolutely at the base of a massive twin set of stairs was the now disfigured remnants of a massive marble statue.

Perched high upon a Corinthian column, the statue of a visage straight from the lore of Greece stood, calmly pointing an extended finger towards the shaken author. Before the imposing being, a small basket of grapes laid at its feet, dwarfed only by the horn-shaped cornucopia seemingly resting precariously at its side. The laurel wreathing its head said it all: it was a sentry, a guardian. It was a god.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he jogged towards the statue, absently hoping he didn't make too much noise with his entrance. Taking in his surroundings, Castle looked up to the twin grand foyer staircases for any signs of movement.

_Nothing_. No wisps of moving shadows, no sign of life at all. Not a sound, not a solitary echo of creaking boards or slamming doors met his ears. The thought was troubling, standing where he was, edged in nerves, beset on all sides by labyrinth-like corridors and rooms that he knew nothing of. The man could have already escaped to any of the innumerable rooms in this place; exploiting the advantage of knowing the layout, having the element of surprise at any corner. Not to mention it was fairly obvious the gunman was a professional death dealer. It was a turkey shoot at best, a charge into calamity at worst- but he had to find him. He didn't want to let Beckett down.

Looking back and forth between the two long corridors on each side of the grand room, he was reminded of similar moments he had put his main characters through. It was a metaphorical puzzle, of sorts- a lone figure bounding into uncharted territory, where any one move could divine a grizzly fate. Yet, where would he go? Which way was the safest- which way would end it?

He, the writer, knew exactly where the reader expected the climax. They wanted a shock, to suddenly find themselves in a spot that brimmed with loose nerves and itchy fingers ready to turn the page. Unpredictability was what they hoped for; it was in its brilliant powers of suggestion that so easily lured the reader onward; playing the part of deceitful ropes he could cut away with the stroke of his pen. But that's what he never gave them. It was too easy to fall into the habit of painting a moment wrought with sudden jolts and turns. No- true heights of suspense lied in the infallible sense of comfort in knowing what was to come- knowing that somewhere down the barrel of a restless gun; a bullet was waiting to find him.

_How would you write it, Castle_, a voice that sounded awfully a lot like Beckett flashed across his mind.

_Easily_, he mused. Turning towards the far right corridor, he noted the well lit crystal chandeliers spanning its impressive length. To his left, an identical hallway covered in darkness. The man, whoever he might be, was a professional, of that he had no doubt. The life the gunman most certainly lived demanded as much attention to detail as his did. Everything was useful; every square inch of the environment played a small part in his game.

Craning his head for a better view, he noticed through the arch-like openings down the hall, each room was easily accessible, and from the looks of it, had multiple entrances. While more modern of a trait than something normally found in Victorian buildings, it meant the shooter would be pointing straight towards the most likely point of contact. And that meant the gunman was pointing at the lone entrance accessible from where he stood in the lobby.

The man, whoever he might be, was a professional, of that he had no doubt. The life the gunman most certainly lived demanded as much attention to detail as his did. Everything was useful; every square inch of the environment played a small part in his game. The gunman knew he was cornered, and judging by his warm greeting, he knew they were here for a reason. He was outnumbered, and for all he knew, entirely outgunned. He would do what any man of his ilk would do in his situation- set a trap.

_But from which side_?

Glancing from corridor to corridor, the dilemma was obvious, so were the differences. On one hand, a brightly lit side that no one in their right mind would hide in. The potential faults were too apparent; the advantage the gunman had would be weakened considerably. On the other side, nothing but darkness could be seen; where shadow could prove to be as much of a barricade as a concrete wall. The choice was clear.

"But, it's a trap…" he muttered, looking back to the darkened side.

He knew his suspect as well as he knew the age old scene before him- his chances for survival plummeted if he went into the dark looking for the man. Yet, he would be cautious, anxious to strike out at even the slightest whisper of noise. There, in the dimly connected rooms, he knew what he would be walking in to. It was entirely too predictable for either party.

And there was just no way this man taking that route.

At first glance, he would have assumed to casually check through the well lit areas without batting an eyelash, and maybe, just maybe that was exactly the mindset this shooter was hoping he would have. He would be careless over there, quick to spot and surely a dead man walking from any angle. It was the way he would write it, so why not go with it?

He quickly crept over to the door to the right of the lit hallway. As quietly as he could, he slipped into the room and tiptoed to the ornate archway on the right side wall. Peeking around, his eyes caught sight a large grand piano resting in the middle of the room across the hall. He's in there, he thought, he has to be.

Rushing into the cavernous hallway, he nearly tripped as he caught sight of a rifle jutting into the hallway from the opposing side room, abandoned on the floor mere inches from his feet.

_Maybe he's unarmed now. Maybe it's sa_-

His thoughts were summarily interrupted when a section of the wall a few feet in front of him exploded, tearing away a chunk of the threshold in its wake. Without a second thought, he dove to the floor and scrambled to the far side wall. His stomach fell to his feet when he heard the tell-tale sound of a smoking, empty cartridge falling to the ground as another was slowly pumped into a chamber.

"Why did they send you?" a voice yelled.

Just as some semblance of a reply was forming on Castle's tongue; another blast rang out, sending bits of plaster and wood raining down on him.

"I know why you're here!" the man shouted as the rather distinct sound of a cartridge falling to the floor echoed into the hallway. "And there's no way in hell I'm giving up my brother!"

"Your brother?" Castle yelled back in surprise.

_No, that couldn't mean…_

"Who else," the voice shot back. "Mike won't help you anymore. He's done with you bastards! Don't you get it? He's long gone by now and there's no way in hell you're going to get an ass hair's worth of info out of me."

Perhaps to emphasize his point, another shot echoed from the room.

"So I suggest you go find Tanner, and you tell him I said that he can fuck right off!" the man roared as he sent another round into the wall.

In the midst of the second close call of the day, his mind was shouting frantically at him to think this one over, that something was off. There was only one set of brothers that had anything to do with this house that he knew of, and both of them were dead. Well, apparently dead. Slamming his eyes shut, he replayed the conversation in his head that happened only hours before.

_The sheriff sighed loudly as he handed Castle the sheet of paper. "Marcus J. DeWitt: born March 15th, 1970. Twin brother named Michael J. DeWitt."_

_Beckett's eyes widened instantly at the information._

"_He had a brother?" she exclaimed, standing on the tips of her toes as she tried to peer on to the paper._

"_Where is he now?" she asked._

"_Oh, he's still here." The sheriff said mirthlessly and made his way rather sullenly over to his desk._

"_I guess we're going to pay him a visit then?" she asked quickly._

"_No, I don't think we are." Castle said with a frown as he read through the rather lengthy profile. "Marcus DeWitt died on February 6th, 1991."_

Impossible, he thought, shaking his head quickly. How in the hell was he going to explain to Beckett that he was having a conversation with a dead man?

"Marcus?" Castle shouted. "Are you Marcus DeWitt?"

Moments passed and no reply came. Castle slowly lifted himself up from the floor and crouched against the wall. Something wasn't right, and he had to get the man talking and get some answers out of him while he could- because at this point, it wasn't exactly a certainty that both of them would be leaving the house alive.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Not a second passed when Castle had the urge to regret blurting that particular question out, when suddenly a large Asian man charged into the hallway and collided directly into his chest.

Caught completely off guard, Castle winced as he crashed back onto the ground. His arms immediately flew up, his grip relinquishing his pistol to the force of inertia. He looked up to see the man face radiating with fury as he straddled his chest. With little time to react, he brought his arms over his face just as a powerful fist connected with his forearm, setting off a flurry of swings all around Castle's body.

He had to do something, and he had to do it fast. The punches crashing into him were growing in fervor, and he was honestly sure that the madman wasn't going to stop for a very long time. Wiggling back and forth, trying his best to deflect the attacks, he felt a little bit of space open between them. Wasting not a second longer, he lifted his right knee as quickly and as forcefully as he could, straight towards the man's-

"Ah!" DeWitt wailed in agony and promptly felt over and off Castle. With precision he honestly didn't realize he had, he rolled with motion of DeWitt's crumpling figure and unleashed a rounding swing, connecting with DeWitt's jaw with an audible crunch.

The larger man's head jerked backwards from the force, and Castle was sure he'd just knocked him out. Yet, not a second later, one of DeWitt's arms suddenly latched onto the collar of Castle's shirt, and Castle felt a foot dig into his gut right before his entire world spun upside down.

He found himself staring at the ceiling and he quickly scrambled to his feet just as DeWitt was regaining his balance.

"Look," Castle said through ragged breaths. "I'm not who you think I am. We're not-"

His sentence was cut short when DeWitt charged at him again. Castle quickly stepped to his side, dodging a lunging punch, and quickly returned the gesture with a swing of his own.

His fist hit squarely on the side of DeWitt's nose, and Castle seized the opportunity as the man stumbled a few steps more. Pushing himself forward he charged towards the man, intent on tackling him and holding him down until there wasn't any more fight left in him. But, the moment just before he was about to crash into DeWitt's broad back, the man's right arm came suddenly came up and planted itself on Castle's arm.

Toppling forward off his balance, Castle helplessly watched on as DeWitt used his momentum to spin himself around and promptly tossed him away. The very last thing he saw was the wall growing in proximity before he felt sudden pain jolt in his forehead and a shower of color explode in his eyes.

With a resounding thud, both men hit the floor completely beaten.

DeWitt groaned and slowly pulled himself up, wiping the blood away from his lip and nose. Castle tried to get up, but only fell back to the ground gritting his teeth as his hands flew to his brow, as if to rub some of the disorientation away.

Lying there, he watched as DeWitt began looking around the destroyed hallway until he froze as he caught sight of something. Following his line of vision, his eyes landed on the shining chrome plating of his pistol, nestled against the far corridor's end. DeWitt began to stagger over to where his pistol had landed in the brawl, and every muscle in Castle's body was screaming at him to get up, to stop the man-

"Castle!" he heard Beckett shout somewhere behind him, her footsteps rapidly growing in volume.

DeWitt stopped in his tracks above him, letting out a string of curses under his breath. He took one look down at Castle and sent one final resounding kick into his side. It wasn't even a moment later that he heard the heavy footsteps of DeWitt trail away into another room as another, much lighter pair, grew closer to him.

He felt a soft pair of hands lift his head up, cradling him closer to a warm body. Daring to open his eyes, he looked up to see Beckett hovering over him with worry etched all over her face.

"Castle?" She gasped as her hands began frantically searching over his face. "Are you hurt? Jesus, where is all this blood coming from? Castle, can you hear me?"

If the situation were any different, he would have chuckled at the uninhibited outpouring of worry she was showing him. Instead, he slowly pulled himself up and propped himself onto one hand, trying his best to give her the most reassuring smile he could muster.

"Don't worry about me," he said, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs. "We've got a bad guy to catch, and you… are not going to believe who it is."

With quite a bit of effort, he got back to his feet and picked up his gun.

"Who?" Beckett asked.

"It's our dead guy." Castle said gruffly as he turned to face her. "It's Marcus DeWitt, Johnny Vong's brother."

"What? Wait, no." Beckett scrambled out. "That's-"

"-exactly what I thought too." Castle finished.

Beckett looked pensive for a moment before peering into the piano room.

"Which way did he go?"

"I think I heard him running that way," he said, pointing towards the first room he entered. Beckett nodded, and with nothing more than a gesture of her hands, they made their way into the room.

"There!" Castle pointed across the spacious room to a partially open door. "That wasn't open when I came through here the first time."

Together, they dashed to the door, guns held readily at their sides. When they reached the door, Beckett promptly sent a foot forward, knocking it the rest of the way open, flooding the room with light. She rushed in, and Castle moved to charge in right behind her.

"Stairs!" she exclaimed somewhere beyond the gloom of the light.

Castle narrowed his eyes, making out the faint silhouette of his partner a few feet away.

"Where?" he whispered. "I can't see in here at all."

"Straight ahead. Hold a second…" She replied and then he heard a switch flip.

A large light dangling above the center of the room came to life, and sure enough, his eyes immediately trained on a narrow, poorly kept staircase barely visible behind what looked like an average closet door, illuminated by a yellowish light resting somewhere over its length.

"A secret passage? Seriously?" he quipped.

"It's a good thing they're usually one-ways." Beckett appeared back at his side, motioning towards the stairs. "Let's get this son of a bitch."

With a quick nod, he dashed up the stairs ahead of Beckett, his pistol pointing directly ahead. The path was narrow and long, but not once did he take his eyes away from its landing. Holding his breath, he clenched his jaw, preparing himself for whatever was about to come into view.

And the moment his first foot met the landing, he promptly ground to a halt. He absently felt Beckett bump into his back. And he was sure she was telling him something rather urgent, but none of it registered as he took in the perplexing sight before him.

Surrounding the entirety of the expansive, marble covered room were dozens upon dozens of statues, each with small cups lying at their feet. He knew what he was looking at the moment his eyes landed on the closest statue to them. They were perhaps the most famous legends of the ancient world, the epicenter that one of the greatest civilizations in history built themselves around. And he wasn't sure if that should intrigue him or make him worry even more.

"What the hell is this place?" Kate muttered behind him.

"…It's a temple. A shrine to the Greek Pantheon." He said and pointed around the bases of the statues. "And those are libations to them."

"Shouldn't he be in the center, then?" she said as one of her arms came into view, pointing towards a large bearded man holding a bolt of lightning.

"Well, yeah." Castle replied with a frown. This was off. This was way off. Any fan or collector worth their salt wouldn't make such a glaring error.

"Who is that then?"

Looking back towards the center of the room, he saw a lone statue towering over dozens of cups around its base, and his jaw slacked immediately. It was the tallest of all the statues, cast in a rich, vibrant gold. Atop his head, a silvery wreath lay. His eyes were fixed ahead, wide and brimming with mirth, as though he were a spectator to a grand sport. His robes were a deep crimson color, hanging loosely from his broad, defined chest. But that wasn't what gave him pause.

In his right hand, a large harp rested comfortably in his embrace; in his left, a large pitcher was held out, tipping over to one side. Looking back to the statues feminine looking face, realization struck him soundly- it was the same visage he put a few holes in when he entered the house.

"It's Dionysus." He said curiously as he walked further into the room. "But, why the…"

"So we're going from a bunch of folks obsessed about deserts to a Greek god?" Beckett said disbelievingly. "That doesn't make sense at all."

"Actually, it-"

A terrifying crash echoed behind him, stopping him all together. Before he had time to turn around, Beckett was already disappearing back down the stairs.

"Beckett, wait!" he shouted as he raced towards the stairs. A near suffocating wave of fear gripped him when he heard the sounds of a struggle echoing up the stairway. _Come on, come on_, he yelled to himself, imploring his feet to move faster. She was in trouble, she needed him now.

When he finally made it to the last step, he saw a large end table broken into dozens of pieces, strewing its contents all over the room. His eyes blazed frantically around the room, searching for any sign of her.

Then he heard a very loud, guttural roar.

A sudden shout of surprise involuntarily left his lips as he instinctively fell back on the steps when Beckett and DeWitt suddenly flew into view not even an arm's length from him, tangled together in a flurry of limbs and hurling fists.

He moved to join in, to knock the bastard out before he could do any more harm. But the very moment his made it back to his feet, DeWitt yelled furiously, grabbing Beckett by her collar of her jacket. Her feet left the ground immediately as he lifted her up and charged headlong towards the closest watched on in growing horror as she crashed into the wall, sliding lifelessly down its smooth surface into a crumpled ball.

"Kate!"

He wasn't quite sure what possessed him, nor did any coherent thought flit through his head. The only, nerve-igniting thought running through his head was to protect her at all costs.

Charging into the room he lunged at the imposing man, slamming into him with enough force to send him rolling further into the room, beyond both DeWitt and Beckett. Catching himself, he was about to stand back up when a small object caught his eye from the nearby broken table. Snatching it into his grasp, he leapt to his feet and gave the tiny amphora jar a few experimental tosses in his hand before hurling it with all his strength at the back of Marcus DeWitt's head.

From the look on his face as he turned to the incoming projectile, to the subsequent crunching thud when it connected with his forehead, Castle briefly wondered if DeWitt even knew what hit him. The man fell gracelessly on his face, completely unconscious. Without a second thought, Castle stepped over him and rushed towards Beckett.

"Beckett!" he shouted, sliding to her side. "Beckett, wake up!"

He frantically searched over her, looking for any wound to. Although his search was fruitless, finding nothing more than a fresh knot on the back of her head, he felt his stomach burn hotter and hotter with each passing second her eyes remained unmoving.

_Wake up, Beckett. Wake-_

"Nice throw, Castle," she said in a small voice.

"Oh thank god." He heaved a sigh, pulling her into a bone crushing hug. And for a moment, he honestly didn't care if she got on to him for it later. She was alright, and the powerful flood of relief that brought was as deep as it was unstoppable.

"I think I owe you one," she said after a moment as she turned her head and fixed her gaze on the prone form of Marcus DeWitt. After a moment, she turned her gaze back to him. "In fact, I'm going to let you do something you've been dying to do since the day we met."

"What's that?" He said slowly, suddenly realizing how close his face was to her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of her hands moving slowly to her waist. Her lips twitched into a groggy, lopsided smile, when suddenly a pair of handcuffs appeared in between their faces.

"I'll let you cuff him."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Castle smiled happily as he resituated himself in the backseat, feeling a peculiar sense of accomplishment as his movements caused DeWitt to groan miserably beside him.

"Castle." Beckett looked at him from the rearview mirror. "Leave him alone."

"What? I gave him the window seat." He quipped as he quickly nudged the injured man again. "It's not my fault it's covered in glass."

Looking away from the semi-conscious man, the smile grew wider on his face as the police station came into view. For a moment, he wondered how often Beckett felt this strange mix of relief and euphoria whenever she brought a suspect in. Maybe it was the fight, or the countless near-death experiences he had been privy to in the past hour, but as they pulled into the station's tiny parking lot, he honestly felt like he could take on the world.

"Here's your new home, Marcus!" he said playfully, discreetly nudging the slouched man for old time's sake.

"Uh, Castle?" Beckett said lowly, breaking him from his reverie. Looking over to her, he saw her perched up in her seat, craning her head closely to her window. "Is that…"

Following her line of vision, he saw a very sour looking middle aged man standing in front of the station's entrance, donning a familiar frown.

"Brooks?" He panned.

As the tattered SUV came to a stop, he hopped out and made his way to Brooks just as Beckett was stepping out of her door.

"Mr. Rook, Mrs. Rook," Brooks said as he firmly shook their hands. The surly agent then reached into his jacket pocket, producing two plane tickets. "We have uncovered some new information that requires your immediate attention. I will need you two to come back with me to New York on the next flight."

"But, sir." Beckett said, pointing her thumb back to the SUV. "What about DeWitt?"

"We can't just leave him here." Castle added, looking over to his partner. They had done too much to get this guy, whoever the hell he was.

"He will be coming with us." Brooks replied. "Do not worry about that."

Setting down his briefcase, he reached into it and pulled out a large manila folder, and the words 'Confidential' appeared stamped onto its front.

"Read this on the flight over and you will understand."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

AN: The inner monologue that Castle has when he is trying to deduce which way Marcus might have went is actually plucked straight from the free-writing outline I had written before I began writing the scene out. I was trying to just write out my thoughts on how I should think the scene would go, how Castle would approach it, and when I looked back at it- well, it just fit perfectly. A writer writing about how another writer would write a scene- yep, very meta. :)

I enjoyed the way it fleshes out his personality so much that this 'plotting a story within a story' narrative makes its return multiple times throughout the rest of the tale.


	13. Devil in the Details

AN: …And we're back. Thanks for the reviews and alerts! I hope you enjoy this update.

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Chapter 13 – Devil in the Details

_Read it on the flight_…

Was he kidding? A tiny voice blossomed in her mind with no small dose of incredulity, remarking rather loudly the agent couldn't have picked a worse time. The folder's contents shifted slightly beneath her fingers. They were thin- embarrassingly so; she could nearly see the faint silhouette of the other side of her hand through it. It was a ridiculous demand, considering the circumstance. How on earth could whatever lay inside this miniscule folder help any more than a walking, albeit semi-conscious connection to both Rathborne and Johnny Vong?

"Sir," she began. "We really need to talk to our suspect before we leave."

"I'm afraid you don't have the time to do that." Brooks replied, glancing for only a moment over to a rather bewildered looking Sheriff Teague. "As you may understand, we cannot discuss this in mixed company. All I can tell you right now is that your orders are to return to New York as soon as possible. I'm sure that once you read the document, the reasoning to do so will become evident."

Beckett shook her head disbelievingly, not quite ready to accept that she was hearing their temporary boss correctly. A thousand things could go wrong from here to New York- hell, even from here to the plane. Considering just how seemingly well connected Rathborne was to trace Johnny Vong all the way down here, it wasn't a stretch to assume, and there was no way she wanted to take that risk.

"I can assure you he will be a reliable witness," She reasoned coolly, clearly under the impression that the agent was clearly misunderstanding them. "Just give us ten minutes to get a few things-"

"Agent Rook, this is new information, solid information," the agent stressed, "and we need our best to follow it."

Beckett narrowed her eyes for a moment. Was that what this was about, she wondered. Was this wild goose chase into the south not concrete enough for them? Granted, even before they boarded the plane, she would have readily admitted that the reasons they took their first steps onto the plane were a stretch at best; possibly seen as another precarious choice to follow second-hand knowledge. But that was before they were lead to Johnny Vong's dead body, before they found the enigmatic note under his pillow, or battling it out with his not quite dead homicidal brother.

Pieces were finally fitting together, at least where Johnny Vong was concerned. But for her that was enough; it was always those tedious, fault-ridden first steps in an ever escalating story that were the hardest to make. But it was a start, it was a chance to see the shroud so heavily draped over the murder of Alvin Burbury and Paul Krashinko finally be lifted, and the unconscious man in the back seat could very well be the hand to pull it back.

It could have been the sweltering heat swilling through the thick, muggy and utterly uncomfortable air that made her fist clench around the spine of the folder; the ebbs of pain still shooting through the still fresh wound jutting down the nape of her neck that made her anger grow by the millisecond. Yet it was looking over to her partner, with the fragmented images of Castle lying in a heap of splinters and powdery remnants of a disfigured wall still flickering relentlessly across her thoughts that made her next breath swell with the only reply the agent's apathy deserved.

"No."

"I'm sorry?" Brooks cocked his head to the side.

"No. We're staying until we're done with DeWitt." she began as she handed the folder over to Castle. "That man back there probably has more information about our investigation than any other lead-"

"We don't have time for 'probably', Agent Rook." Brooks interjected. "Whoever that is will have to wait. I have my orders, and subsequently, so do you."

"Wait, you don't know who that is?" Castle interjected.

"Need I remind you that you haven't contacted me since you left the Brad Decker's office?" Brooks drawled almost bitingly as he peered over to Castle. "It stands to reason that anything you have found down here isn't known to me or any of the task force."

_Wait_…

In that moment, somewhere in the mind of Kate Beckett, a familiar nagging sensation that usually reserved itself for tenser talks in the interrogation room came forth. It was a by-product of her job perhaps, indelibly fastened somewhere in the reaches of the instinct of every detective that had ever grilled a suspect. Explanations were habitual facets of the job, seemingly inconspicuous in passing when one was trying their best to prove their innocent or sharpen an alibi. Names, dates and a healthy manner of other admissible things would leave a desperate mouth. But those were readily admitted, easy to sculpt on the spot.

Those could be lies.

As Castle so effortlessly displayed time and time again, a murder needed a story; a story needed stages, scenes, and actors. But none of that would matter without reason, without plot. Somewhere in the tangled web behind every harrowing tale, a simple truth laid waiting; a single intertwining strand of knowledge that bound it all together. Yet any story that plainly stated that knowledge would be nothing at all. It took illusions and inconspicuous streams of words to keep it hidden, yet always there for the taking. And like her partner, that was where she so intently looked. That was where she thrived. It came down to them saying everything- by saying nothing at all. And Brooks just did that in spades.

_He didn't know we were here._

Whatever reply she had ready to fire at middle-aged man swiftly vanished from her thoughts as she replayed the agent's words over in her head. He didn't know anything, she mused, somehow completely unaware of their entire investigation here. As unsettling a thought as that was, one singular conclusion worried her even more as she replayed the events of their arrival at the airport in her mind: if it wasn't him, who knew they were coming then?

Before she had a chance to mull any further, she glanced over to Castle, who was wearing the very perplexed expression she was trying her best to conceal on her own face. He stepped forward, undoubtedly weighing the very same questions marring her just behind his lips. Without a second thought, she quickly grabbed his wrist, sliding one finger into the crevice of his palm.

"Tell me you remembered." she said sharply, her eyes narrowing the increasingly confused author.

"Huh?" Castle blinked owlishly at her.

"You didn't." She said in a clipped tone. "You knew we had to call him _once we landed here_, and you _didn't remember_."

Nearly every fiber of her body was practically shouting at him to catch the real message she was trying to convey. _He didn't know, Castle. Don't ask him why. Don't ask him why…_

"But I thought once we landed… Oh!" Castle's eyes widened momentarily. "Oh, I didn't remember!"

"We'll talk about this later," she said lowly, her eyes brimming with an entirely different intent.

"Sorry, honey." Castle slowly leaned towards her and then she felt his lips graze tenderly along her cheek. And though as hard as it was becoming for her to not relish in anything but the sensations his simple gesture was causing to her thumping heart, she somehow managed to hear him ever so weakly whisper in her ear, _'I understand'_.

"Oh, no you don't," she huffed and backed away, trying to stem the blush threatening to grow in the wake of his lips. Going back into angry wife mode, she glared at him, more than happy to ham up this squabble. "If you think I'm letting you get the window seat when we leave, you've really got-"

"Aww!" Castle groaned pitifully.

"Alright, alright." Brooks placatingly waved his hands in front of them. "You're forgiven. Just please keep us posted whenever you decide to take a vacation."

"Ah, young love." She heard the sheriff mumble behind them.

Giving Castle one last secretive, very thankful look, she turned back to the agent. She had to be careful, she reminded herself. It was becoming more and more apparent that something incredibly amiss was going on, something that every bit of her experience demanded that nary a peep of concern left her lips until she knew more.

"What happened once we got here is a long story, sir, but I can't stress enough that we really need to get some information out of our suspect first." She said imploringly.

"While I am personally ecstatic that you two have found a good witness, my orders were emphatically clear."

"So, that's it?" Beckett snapped. "What's going to happen to him, then?"

"He will be taken care of." was his succinct reply. The surly agent casually turned towards the station entrance and flicked his hand towards something inside. Not a moment later, two large, grim-looking men lumbered through its sliding doors, clearly making their way towards the unconscious man in the SUV.

"Now hold on a minute!"

Her eyes darted over to Castle, and for a moment, an expression she never thought she would see began to cross the authors face. His brows, still stained with remnants blood, furrowed menacingly towards the middle-aged agent as he moved forward. It was apparent that she wasn't the only one caught off guard when he immediately moved in front of the oncoming men, for they stopped immediately and glanced back to their boss.

"Taken care of?" Castle shot back. "What exactly are you implying, Brooks?"

Brooks remained silent as Castle continued unleashing salvo after salvo of questions. It was obvious to her that he was trained to do so, but that apparently didn't quell any of the author's anger.

"He wanted us dead, Brooks. We almost died. My _wife_ almost died." Castle growled, never taking his eyes off of the two expressionless agents. "You seriously can't expect for me stand by and accept that we can't ask him why."

"Both Castle and I went through nothing short of hell to get this guy." She said sharply, pointing directly back to the stilled form of Marcus DeWitt. This was a mess, a complete and total mess. In mixed company or not, she had to let him know just how important DeWitt was before it was too late.

"Look, I can't-"

"He was waiting, sir."

"Waiting?" Brooks repeated as one thick tuft of his brow floated above his glasses.

"Yes, waiting- with a very large gun and the hospitality of a man possessed." Castle said and motioned to a small cut jutting out from his hairline. "Whatever he was waiting for, I can't be sure. But I can tell you that it was definitely not a part of our reasons to go where he was."

"What were your reasons?"

"To find the murderer of Johnny Vong." Beckett finished evenly, mentally noting the look of shock the shot across the agent's face.

"Enough," Brooks said and held up his hand, apparently receiving the message loud and clear. "Let's continue this conversation inside."

As the group silently made their way inside the station's lobby, Brooks stopped just before the front desk and turned to the sheriff.

"I hope you don't mind if we borrow your office for a moment, Sheriff." He said and promptly walked towards its door without waiting for a response.

"Not at all." Sheriff Teague gave a shrug of his shoulders then pointed to Castle's forehead. "I'll find you guys a medic in the meantime."

Following the aged man into the room, Beckett stood resolutely beside Castle and closed the door behind them. She watched the agent expectantly as he lowered himself into the sheriff's chair.

"Alright," Brooks said after a moment, letting out a deep, rumbling breath. "What's the story?"

Wasting no time at all, Castle walked over to the desk and pulled a small crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. As he handed it to the agent, he looked over to Beckett and gave a small nod.

"What you're looking at, sir, is a copy of the file for two residents of Chatham County, two men to be precise: One Marcus DeWitt, and one Michael DeWitt." Beckett explained quickly as Brooks' eyes began skimming over it. "They are twins who once lived in an estate some ways out of the city limits named Rose Hill."

"I'm assuming that's the place you just came from." Brooks supplied and motioned with his hands for her to continue.

"Correct." She nodded. "Rose Hill is listed as their place of residence in the county records as you can see, and surprisingly enough, it was only from birth and property tax records that we knew they existed. From what we can tell, they were normal citizens- never in trouble, not a scratch at all on their criminal record."

"What does this have to do with our case, Detective?" Brooks tiredly looked up from the paper before setting it down on the desk.

"When we arrived here, we found out that Johnny Vong had been killed only a few hours before." She continued. "Since then, we have been assisting this department with certain pieces of evidence found on Vong himself."

"Like this," Castle added as he pulled out the small worn passport from his jacket, "a passport under the alias of Marcus DeWitt. Plus a two plane tickets: one to Atlanta, and one to Florence, Italy."

"Two? Wait, why did he fly to Atlanta and somehow end up dead here?" Brooks asked, peering down to the passport. "That doesn't make sense."

"That's where we were stumped as well." Castle said. "We initially assumed that Marcus DeWitt was the actual name of Johnny Vong, but that didn't resolve the matter of why he came here. But then, my lovely, brilliant partner had an idea."

"She theorized that perhaps we were looking at the passport the wrong way, and through it, the alias of Marcus DeWitt as well. This morning, we asked the sheriff to run the name through the county database and we got a match."

"So you're saying the guy in the SUV…" Brooks said lowly, motioning in the direction of the station's door.

"Marcus DeWitt, Johnny Vong's brother," Castle supplied, "the very name on the passport that was found on Johnny Vong's body."

"The problem, Agent Brooks," Beckett concluded, "is that Marcus DeWitt died in 1991."

That got his attention. For a few silent moments, the agent looked torn between bouts of confused frowns and pensive looks down to the passport. Feeling rather sympathetic for him, she decided to finish the story.

"We naturally assumed that all we might find at Rose Hill was something that could uncover the reason Vong came to Savannah. When we arrived at Rose Hill, however, we were immediately fired upon by him. During the ensuing chase, he threatened that we should leave his brother, Michael, alone- that Michael was done with us and wanted out."

"So he thought…"

"That we were members of Rathborne." Castle nodded slowly. "It became evident that not only was he expecting the arrival of his brother, but he was completely unaware of his murder as well."

"So Michael DeWitt is Johnny Vong." Brooks said quietly, and flipped a few pages to the picture in the passport. "I can see the resemblance. So why did he have his brother's passport on him?"

Beckett shrugged. "We can only guess, sir. But I would be willing to bet the other ticket to Florence would explain it."

"How so?"

Beckett took a deep breath, her eyes training to the small booklet in the agent's hand. "Johnny Vong knew he was a dead man once Decker had him released. Yet, instead of using that ticket, and to be honest, another's passport he could easily get away with, he came here."

"In any circumstance, this doesn't make sense." Castle added. "No one in their right mind walks straight into their death when a ticket to their safety is already in their hands."

"And that's why we believe the ticket is not a coincidence, or a mere side note that can be chalked up to Vong changing his mind in the heat of the moment." Beckett shook her head. "Rather, we think it wasn't meant for him at all- it was for his brother, Marcus, to go to this specific destination for a reason Johnny Vong knew he would die for."

"Florence…" Brooks said barely above a whisper, falling into an unnerving silence.

"Marcus DeWitt can be our key to uncovering the reasons why Paul Krashinko and Alvin Burbury were murdered." Castle said firmly. "Considering his ties to Vong, it is almost certain that he also has information on other Rathborne members."

"And for that fact alone, we think it's safer for him here. That's why we can't go, sir." Beckett reasoned.

"I'm sorry… This wasn't my decision to make." Brooks said solemnly, though looking surprisingly apologetic. "You have your orders."

Just as Beckett had the sudden urge strangle Brooks, he slowly stood up and pulled two tickets from his jacket.

"I don't like it any more than you two do," Brooks removed his sunglasses, his eyes glancing to each of them intently. "However, orders or not, I can promise you that I will make sure that you will get a chance to question Mr. DeWitt once we arrive."

Beckett looked over to Castle for a moment and nodded.

"That's all we ask, sir." Taking the tickets from him, she shook his hand as the agent bid them farewell.

"You have three hours before your plane departs. That should give you ample time to get cleaned up, gather your luggage, and meet me at the terminal." As his hand reached for the door knob, he turned his gaze back to the pair one more time. "You two did a good job down here. A good job."

Once the door closed behind him, they promptly fell into the plushy chairs behind them.

"From the higher up's, huh." Castle mused as he watched the agent's retreating figure pass through the station's sliding doors. "How did he not know about Vong or what we were doing here?"

"I'm glad you caught on to that too." Beckett replied. "Any theories?"

"On this one? I can't even begin to hazard a guess."

And that was the problem, she mused. The implications of what it may mean were uncomfortable to even venture down. There were much more pressing matters to attend to. This one would just have to wait in line.

Beckett was shaken from her thoughts when there came a sudden tapping at the door. She looked up to see Sheriff Teague gesturing to a middle-aged woman in an EMS uniform to his right.

"Looks like we can finally get that lump on your head checked, Castle." Beckett smiled as she stood up.

"Sounds fantastic to me," He said with a grin. "At least I got a few good punches in."

"That you did, Castle. That you did."

"Oh, and Kate?" Castle said as he opened the office door for her.

"Yeah?"

"You were kidding about the window seat, right?"

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AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one! Originally this chapter had two other scenes, both of which were pushed back to the next chapter primarily because of pacing and length.


	14. In Transit

**Chapter 14 – In Transit**

Though the slumbering city's paled, hazy lights were still blanching the featureless tips of the forest some ways behind him, Savannah was now a long, distant memory as far as he was concerned. The journey by night had been a tenuous one, yet seemingly no more so than these last few steps spanning between him and an archaic looking phone booth just beyond the flickering gloom of a dying neon sign.

_Where can I go...?_

His hands, still caked in mud and unidentifiable grime were already reaching towards the phone as he staggered onto the intersecting gravel road, leading his heavy feet to the one destination he had been searching for since he'd ran so carelessly from his mark. This couldn't wait, he told himself. He was lost, he was without command.

"Just like old times..." he whispered under a mirthless smile.

The old gas station in front of him was stripped of any slither of life; signs, worn and faded, dangled like hapless marionettes behind foggy panes of warped glass. It was dead and uninviting, cold and havenless- the onslaught of similarities weren't lost on him, nor far from his already beleaguered mind. The moment was growing flesh, catching him in his weakened, sleep-deprived state. Madness was coming, and all too soon, the world before him would vanish away as had it done so many times before.

With step by sluggish step across the prickling gravel road, the man focused with all his power on the booth before him. His lips pursed with grim determination on the goal ahead, intent on staying away the ghosts that so fervently were gnawing into his thoughts.

Once his hands grasped the chilly, slightly unhinged door of the booth, he mustered his energy and slowly pried it away and promptly fell in, crashing against the dusty receiver with a jarring thud. With a deliberate hiss escaping his chapped lips, he hooked his aching fingers on the phone box and raised himself with his back, anchoring most of his weight against the booth wall. Once he felt slightly stable, he quickly reached for the receiver and slipped in a few coins.

The number he began to dial was forbidden, even to him- even to flesh and blood. Never utter our name when in the field, they would warn. Ghosts can't talk, they would cryptically say. Yet, he had no other option. He could not bear the weight of his hubris any longer.

_You were careless..._

Gazing aimlessly beyond the two old gas pumps ahead, his listless eyes tightened for only a moment when a crackling dial tone blossomed in his ears. It took no more than the span of a shuddered breath for the ringing to suddenly stop, replaced by a quiet hum somewhere in the far reaches on the other side of the line.

"Father?"

"I thought I told you-" a rushed voice hissed on the other line, laced with more warning than he expected.

"I know." He sighed in frustration, taking a moment to wipe some grime and sweat from his brow. "I know my orders, but something has happened. It's about the Vong and-"

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence." The graveled voice interjected, flaring with an all too familiar intensity. "You were to never contact me- under any circumstance."

"There's been a development," the weary man stressed through his clenching teeth.

Just when he expected the litany of his failures to come roaring out of the phone, his father's voice faded to somewhere in the distance, mingling with lower, indiscernible accents he couldn't place. The gentle hum of conversation turned clipped, almost harshly so. A door slammed somewhere in the muddled distance, and with little faire the world on the other line rushed back into unsettling clarity.

"Go on." His father said evenly.

"It's about Savannah." he whispered, not caring at all that the road was desolate for miles in either direction. "The mission was... compromised. I had to flee before I could reach Rose Hill."

"And Mr. DeWitt?" his father paused. "What is his status?"

"Dead." At least one consolation to give, he mused.

"And any trail to us?"

The man bit his lip, desperately trying to contain the ire that threatened to seep into his voice. Sparing no hesitation to vent elsewhere, he slammed his fist into the dusty plastic pane to his right.

"No sir, none that I'm aware of." The man replied as evenly as he could.

"I beg your pardon?" The old man barked. "Did you, or did you not, find anything that could be traced to us?"

"I had to run the moment he was taken care of." _Tell him the truth._ _There were witnesses you fool. You were sloppy, you were careless._

"Are you aware of why DeWitt went to Savannah?" His father asked after a moment. Of course not, he wanted to shout back. It was never his place to know, that's what the old man always told him, anyway. There were whispers of course. Simple nods and unspoken looks that passed around between his brethren that hinted that something big was looming on the horizon, something that had the potential to change everything.

"Only that I was not to fail in stopping him from reaching there." He replied.

"Then rectify this! I expect to see you in Florence with better news." His father added in a hushed tone.

"Yes, sir."

"Good..." the old man clipped. The younger man held his breath, knowing this was as good of a tentative goodbye as he would hear. Yet, even after all of the hell he had trudged through to be here, and all of the seemingly labyrinthine divides between him and his father, he still yearned for the old man's support, for his fretting to grace the light of day at least once. All he wanted was one simple phrase.

_Stay safe, son..._

"Don't fail me."

That was it, he sighed. No well-wishes, no worrisome inquiries for his safety or well-being. Yet somewhere in the recesses of his addled mind, he wanted to tell him anyway. Maybe then, things would change. Then, letting him down wouldn't hurt so much.

"Don't worry about me, father." He said quietly. "I'm alright."

There was a long pause just before he heard the faint click of the other line going dead in his ears. Slowly hanging the phone back up, he pulled his coat closer to his body as he looked south down the highway, noticing the faint beam of a pair of headlights some ways in the distance. Taking his first steps towards his next destination, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper; one that he had been carrying around since the day his father found him again.

It contents were short and sweet- one line to be precise. There was a time that it symbolized something wholly sacred, something known only to a select few. There were days that it played the tether to a fleeting past; then there were others when it was his only sedative. Yet, the world had changed since then, and things that were once nothing more than lofty dreams grew flesh. But, that wasn't enough, he recalled. Not for them, not for his father. Soon, that one simple sentence was going to mean something entirely different. Soon, that simple, fledgling dream would grow claws.

Slipping the worn paper back into his pocket, he drew the collar of his jacket closer and took one final deep breath. Looking down the road, he quickly held up his arm, extending his thumb as a small white sedan slowly came to a stop some yards before him.

_I won't let you down, Dad._

His hands traced the hem of his jacket round to his back, where he felt the cold grip of his gun. With a warm smile tugging his lips, he walked towards the kind stranger. His fingers gently danced over the cool surface of the gun's side, pulling into his grasp as fluidly as his other hand met the stranger's welcoming shake. And under his breath, he whispered the contents of that paper one last time- for himself, for the life he was about to take, and for the hope for an ending of a story that began so long ago.

"They died in the desert..."

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_"How much do you two know about the Johanna Beckett case?"_

At those words, Esposito blinked owlishly for a moment, not quite understanding what that had to do with the whereabouts of Beckett and Castle.

"You mean-" the confused detective paused again, swiveling his head towards Ryan only to see his partner wearing a befuddled frown.

"Yes, _Johanna Beckett._" Montgomery repeated. "I'm assuming you two are pretty acquainted with it?"

Both of the detectives nodded quickly.

"Forwards and backwards, sir." Ryan said quietly as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

That was an understatement, Esposito mused.

"Understood." The captain acknowledged as he stood up from his chair. He stilled for a moment as his gaze lowered to the messy stack of papers covering the poorly hidden confidential folder. Grabbing a visible edge of it, he slowly pulled it out of the stack and slid it to the center of his desk.

"Then there's no need for me to remind you two about Dick Coonan, right?" He inquired, casting his eyes to both of the detectives.

"No, sir." Esposito replied with a glance back to the bullpen, feeling a familiar shudder tremble through his hands. For this line of work, being close in proximity to death was just a necessary evil, a part of the job that never went away. Yet, as with many other things in life, constant exposure will always mitigate the effect. That mode of thought had been with the detective since childhood, and for the most part, it was damn near the only thing that got him through his first few years on the force. It was a simple enough motto: bad guys don't take vacations, accidents don't just happen, and death comes for everybody-

Even for the people we never want it to touch.

Beckett's mother was a sensitive issue. He remembered hearing the stories from Ryan about just how relentlessly she poured over the case when he first transferred to the 12th precinct. Some more privy to the rumor mill said she never left the cold case file room in her entire first year as a detective, others whispered the case would cost her dearly- be it her job or her life. Yet still, he sympathized with the kind of weight he could only imagine she carried every day to work. That kind of strength of will was something any cop strove to attain, and more importantly, to protect. And early on he promised himself, as did his partner, that if a day were to ever come that they could push the specter of death just a little further away from their boss, they would gladly go through hell to do it.

Then, by some cruel twist, the said specter had to go and get himself killed right by her desk, by her no less. What should have been closure for her, turned sour with the last taunting words that left Dick Coonan's mouth. He saw it in her eyes as she tried to resuscitate the dying man- no matter what sorts of hell she had traversed through after her mom's murder, no matter how much she wanted to avenge the part of her life that was so mercilessly ripped from her- she needed him alive more than she wanted the son of a bitch dead.

And that kind of ending is not so easily numbed. Even now, it felt eerie just walking over the spot where Coonan died. No, he thought as he looked back towards his partner and captain, he wasn't going to be forgetting about Dick Coonan for a long time.

"Very well," Montgomery said and exhaled slowly. "I'm not sure how I can explain this, because quite frankly, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. So-"

"They're not in California, right?" Esposito suddenly interjected.

"No," the captain replied. "I honestly don't know where they are right now."

"So..." Ryan spoke up rather tentatively. "Beckett and Castle are the ones leading the investigation on Burbury's and Krashinko's murder?"

"Correct," he nodded. "Headed up by-"

"Mr. Hollywood," both of the detectives said in unison, which brought a small chuckle out of the captain.

"We figured that one out," Ryan said as he pointed towards the manila folder. "I take it he's a Fed?"

Montgomery nodded. "His name is Brooks."

Esposito peered down at the folder for a moment. "So, what does their investigation have to do with Johanna Beckett and Dick Coonan?"

The captain looked pensive for a moment before motioning with his hands towards the chairs closest to his desk.

"You boys might want to get comfortable, this will take a while." He took a quick sip from his coffee mug and then leaned forward. "Apparently, this all began with a frantic voicemail left on the Mayor's personal line by the late Senator Alvin Burbury..."

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"Kate..."

In the recesses of her groggy mind, she heard a deep, familiar voice calling her name. She wanted to wake up and answer, honestly she did, but it had been far too long since she had taken a nap. Adding that to the laundry list of places her body was still aching from the confrontation with Michael DeWitt, all she really wanted to do was sleep it away. Whoever it was, they could wait. She promptly nestled her cheek further into the rather comfortable pillow she was leaning on-

Wait, _leaning on_?

"Kate, wake up. We're going to be landing soon." The voice called again.

With her curiosity amply piqued, Beckett frowned at her misfortune, and slowly cracked open one eye- and immediately, a pair of brilliant blue eyes inches from her own came into view.

"Morning, Detective." He whispered through a tired, somewhat lopsided grin. It was then she realized what, rather who, her pillow was. And with a jolt of nerves tumbling through her belly, it dawned upon her that she wasn't using his arm this time. She slowly lifted herself away from the junction of his shoulder and chest and immediately felt the slight weight of one of his arms that had somehow found its way draped along her shoulders.

"Castle?" She muttered softly, her eyes began to slowly scan around as she tried to take in her surroundings.

"Beckett?" He mimicked, quirking an eyebrow at her. "Sleep alright?"

"Too well, I think." She remarked and made a small attempt to stretch as much as the cramped accommodations allowed. "Why did you wake me up?"

"We have about forty-five minutes before we land." He said, but then pointed down towards an open folder resting squarely in the middle of his lap. "But I figured you might want to check this out before we're home. It's the folder Brooks gave us."

"Anything interesting?" She quickly rubbed her eyes as he brought the contents of the folder closer.

"You could say that," he said as he tapped a finger on the first page. "It's Alvin Burbury's call history of the past two months."

That's what he wanted them on the next plane for? A call log?

"Well, nothing at first," the author frowned and leafed through a few pages. "For the most part, the initial month and a half of inbound and outbound calls are definitely typical- say, to other Senators or Congressmen in D.C. However, when we get to the very last page, things begin to change."

He pulled a single paper from the back and handed it to her.

"Exactly two weeks before Burbury is murdered, he receives a phone call. Apart from calling his secretary exactly 1 hour after this call, it's the only one he receives or makes for the next ten days." He points down the page, and her eyes immediately focus on the date in question. Following the line over, her eyes go wide when she sees the name of the caller.

"Paul Krashinko."

"Right in one." He said and motioned at the bottom half of the page. "Notice anything else?"

True to his word, she immediately noticed that there were no calls made after Krashinko contacted him on the paper, a highly unusual hiccup in communication for a public official. Sliding her finger down to the very next call, her brows furrowed in confusion.

"He's right back to the same old list of names and call frequency." She noted and pointed at the names and sighed. "See? Secretary, constituent, constituent, lobbying firm- everything is back to normal as though-"

"-whatever occurred in the intervening ten days never happened?" Castle supplied in a low voice. "Right, but then..."

The author's finger traced down the page, skimming over a dozen or so different calls until it came to rest right under-

"You're kidding me." She darted forward and pulled the paper closer to her face. "But wait, no that doesn't make any sense."

_The logs don't lie_, she told herself. As hard as it was to believe she was actually seeing it on Alvin Burbury's call history- it was irrefutable- and in all its black and white glory.

_Outgoing Call: Office of the A.D.A; Marvin Decker_

"And the pieces begin moving together..." Castle intoned and leaned back into his seat.

_So there's the moment of truth, _she thought as a frown formed on her lips. Whatever Krashinko said days before had finally sunk in, and Burbury was sealing his fate with one final gesture.

"Burbury was the mystery caller." Beckett couldn't help but let out a small gasp at this small revelation. "He was the one that got Decker to release Johnny Vong."

"And that line alone is probably the reason why Brooks wanted us on the next flight." Castle added.

"So, Burbury finds something out from our dear friend, Paul Krashinko- something _big_." Kate mused aloud, "And whatever it was scared him so badly that he plans on informing trustworthy authorities."

Castle nods once. "But then something goes wrong. He catches wind that some of his buddies are on to him..."

"And he knows he's a dead man walking at that point." She supplied. "He's terrified, he trusts absolutely no one, but he still wants to stop Rathborne at all costs."

"Somewhere at this point in time, Senator Alvin Burbury becomes a recluse." Castle added as his eyes grew a far-away gaze. For a brief, perhaps nostalgic moment, she wondered if this was he looked like when he wrote. "He cancels all of his meetings on Capitol Hill; he ends contact with his secretary and other aides, and basically falls off the face of the earth."

"Right. But, that's the problem, isn't it?" Beckett noted, softly tapping her fingers on the armrest between them.

"What do you mean?" He cocked his head to the side.

"Well," she paused a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. "It's obvious with an organization like this that once you're in, it truly becomes your life."

Castle nodded in agreement and motioned for her to continue.

"So it goes without saying," she made a quick, circular motion through the space between them with a lone finger, "that if Burbury was truly privy to information so high in the echelons of the organization that it was worth being killed for, it stands to reason that with that kind of access to knowledge comes a compromise in, well... privacy."

"A big brother for Big Brother," Castle said with a toothy grin, obviously delighting in the imagery floating around somewhere in the mind. "So, in order to know the organization's every move, one would naturally assume that they, in turn, knew his every move."

"And best of all- where he lived." Beckett finished.

Once again, the author's features grew pensive.

"So what's the problem?" he asked after a moment.

"The problem is that he decided to hide in his home- perhaps the last place on Earth any rational man would hide in this situation." Kate explained.

"I agree," Castle began slowly. "However, think about what you said: he was terrified and trusted absolutely no one. Where else would such a high profile person go to not be seen? Furthermore, the members of this group don't exactly have the most impressive faculties of rationality so far."

_Definitely agreed on that note_, she thought with a hollow chuckle threatening to escape her lips. Even after solving the motive behind Vong's ill-fated trip to Savannah after being released from prison, the actions themselves still were simply dumfounding.

She closed her eyes, and a hazy, smug visage of Dick Coonan flitted through her mind as Castle's theory on the opium trafficking truly began to sink in. What if he was right? Was it possible that there existed something so horrifying that it justified the inception of a drug triad just to hide the real threat underneath it? Was it possible that the answer to that question was what got Burbury and Krashinko killed?

The drug triad, the ticket to Florence, Burbury wanting her and Castle to solve it all, and _that_ riddle... it was irrational, all of it. But, that particular trait seemed fatefully intertwined in the burgeoning shadows cast all around the enigma of Rathborne.

"Maybe that's the only reason we are here," she looked up to meet his eyes. "Maybe, the total implausibility of Burbury walling himself inside his mansion was exactly the kind of confusion he wanted."

"Hiding in plain sight," he surmises and flips through the phone logs once more until he arrives on its final page. "And while living under the radar, Burbury weighs his odds."

Motioning at the bulk of the names and dates from the top of the page on down, Beckett could see what her partner was getting at; looking at the top half of the page seemed more like she was looking at the call history of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde than the actions of a one man. For a vast majority of his calls, there was no hint of abnormal behavior- the calls were wide and varied, typical for a public figure, many to D.C and many more to his secretary. Chances were slim that he was going to make it out of this alive, and the odds for whatever secret he knew would ever see the light of day were even smaller.

"Exactly." She whispered and leaned over to get a better view of the list of dates and names on the log. Scanning down the list, she stops at Decker's name.

"And four days before his death, he decides to go for broke." she said as she tapped her finger on that particular line. "And just like that, Burbury comes out of his shell with a vengeance."

For a moment, Castle merely stared at the list, chewing on his bottom lip.

"So, what changed his mind?" he asked.

"It could have been anything," she said with a small shrug. "It could have been that whatever Krashinko told him had finally sunk in and he couldn't take the weight of the guilt anymore. Still, somewhere in the Senator's mind, he knows his time is running out, so are his options."

Castle's eyes seem to sparkle more and more as the story twined further. He held up one hand as a deep, contemplative look passed across his brows for only a moment. The tired looking author suddenly swiveled his face directly towards her and donned a secretive smile.

"Thus, 'Plan B' is born," his whisper came low and quick.

"Plan B?" she echoed, utterly confused.

"Let's look at it this way." Castle took a deep breath and leaned closer to her, propping himself on her armrest. "Say you're Alvin Burbury. Hailing from the financial heart of this country, you lead a rather opulent life as one of the most powerful Senators of your generation. Everything is not only within the comfortable reach of your whims, should you so choose to ever want, but you have friends and colleagues that literally give you all the clout you could possibly need."

"The perfect life." Beckett nodded.

"Then one day, you receive a call from a scientist." Castle pauses for a moment. "You have never heard of him. He doesn't even flutter around the fringes of any social circles you belong to- but, just mere moments into meeting this man, he changes your life."

Reaching down between them, he slowly pulled out a small packet of peanuts and gently tore it open before continuing his theory.

"Ghosts and skeletons- some you may still know, some you had thought had died somewhere in a long since forgotten chapter of your life- come out of the shadows with hellish fervor. And for all the extravagance surrounding you, all of the power you possess doesn't seem to matter any longer."

"So you fight," he said as he bit into a peanut. "Your life is too good, too precious to be changed. And in your haste to have things return to the way they were before that one phone call..."

"You make a mistake." She finished with a small smile etching her cheeks. "Then you run."

"And run you do." Castle quipped, sporting a toothy grin. "You are now, quite literally, trapped in a corner. You are out of options and out of friends. What do you do now?"

As she began to ponder his question, he continued.

"Think about it. We wouldn't even be here if it weren't for Burbury leaving that voicemail- mind you, with our names literally in it." Castle noted quietly. "Why would Burbury intentionally send us a message, taking us on this wild goose chase, if it led straight back to him this whole time?"

"He wouldn't..." She replied automatically. She looked directly into her partner's eyes when suddenly it hit her.

"...Without a motive" they said in unison.

"He wanted us to know that it was him who called Decker, that it was him who got Vong released from prison." Kate said and handed the paper back to her partner. "Vong was his last line of defense."

"His 'Plan B' against Rathborne." Castle smiled as he slowly nodded.

Beckett stilled for a moment, and with a glance over to the tops of Brooks and DeWitt's head, she nudged her partner.

"Do you think he told Vong what Krashinko said?" she whispered. "Do you think the riddle has something to do with it?"

Castle gave a small sigh and rubbed his eyes. "Sadly, I think somewhere in that riddle lies the whole conversation."

"So the question becomes..." her voice faded as she tried to process all of this new information.

"...what did Krashinko tell him?" Castle glanced over to her before his eyes focused on the contents of the tiny peanut bag in his hands.

"Yeah," she said, watching him with a hint of confusion as he gasped a pulled a single peanut out of the bag. Holding the snack up mere inches from one narrowed, scrutinizing eye, the author seemed to be inspecting every bump and curve of the tiny nut.

"Castle," she nudged him in the arm. "What are you doing?"

"Answering your question, of course!" Castle replied as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "What did Krashinko tell him? Well, I think I know just the person to ask."

Carefully aiming the tiny peanut, Castle bit his bottom lip as he gave a quick flick of the wrist. Kate watched the nut soar through the cabin air, over rows and rows of blissfully ignorant passengers until it began its speedy descent.

The sound of Michael DeWitt groaning as the bite-sized missile impacted on a large bandage covering the top of his head was easily discernible from so many rows back.

"Wow, did you see it bounce?" she heard Castle remark gleefully.

Looking over to her partner, who was sporting a rather impressive triumphant grin, she did her best to give him a reprimanding swat on his arm.

"Did you see it? Come on, did you?"

Choosing to ignore his words, she turned her gaze back to the slouched form of their suspect.

"I thought I told you to leave him alone." She reminded him, though her words were trailed immediately by a sudden, languid yawn.

Castle stared at her for a moment, and then slowly began to smile. "Want me to wake you when we've landed?"

With a blush threatening to rise up her cheeks, she nodded as she felt his arm snake around her shoulders and his grip pull her closer ever so gently.

"Open up," she poked his side and slowly leaned back into his welcoming embrace.

"Night, Castle." She whispered, nestling her head against the bend between his shoulder and chest until she found a comfortable spot. It seemed mere moments passed before she was already ebbing in and out of slumber. Sleep was beckoning, yet somewhere inside her fleeting thoughts, a voice mused that she could get used to this.

"Goodnight, Kate." She heard him whisper as his embraced around her tightened. _Oh yes_, was her last thought before sleep finally took over, getting used to this wouldn't be a problem at all.

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AN: In the original outline, Ryan and Esposito were going to remain in the dark about what exactly was going on through 2/3's of the story. However, since I had intended for Jim Beckett to play a significant part in this story (since it is basically the endgame of the Johanna Beckett case), the idea that there could be a heap of drama apart of the case (and not fluff-related) really seemed to bring a lot more breadth to every character involved… particularly what's to come for all of them.

We're almost halfway back to where we were! Chapter 15 will be up tomorrow around the same time!


	15. The Running Man: Part I

AN: Thank you for the alerts and comments! Enjoy!

**Chapter 15 – The Running Man: Part 1**

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"_She has your eyes, you know."_

_The woman looked up from her bundle in her arms, smiling sweetly, tenderly._

"_Do you think she will be like her Mommy?" the man whispered, a soft, uncontrollable smile stretched his cheeks as he watched his wife gently lay their daughter in her crib._

"…_You know, sweet and brave." He added after a moment. "Fearless and-"_

"_Trying to butter me up?" His wife quipped mirthfully. _

"_Maybe," he replied with a playful smile._

_He bent down, grabbing his daughter's birthday present from the carpet- a rather large, plushy elephant with a pink bow tied around its tail. He placed it in the chair by her crib, and together, they quietly paced to the bedroom door._

"_She's a year old now," he paused, stilling his hand on the door knob, "but I can't shake this feeling."_

"_What's that, dear?" she asked, taking his hands in hers._

"_That she is already growing up too fast." He admitted as he looked back to the small, sleeping form in the middle of the room._

"_That's just the father in you coming out." She reasoned. "But, I'll be sure to remind you of that little admission when it's your turn to change her diapers."_

"_Duly noted," he kissed her softly. The smoldering heat of her hands seeped into his skin like salve as they wrapped around him._

"_She will be all those things," her tenderness poured through his senses. "She will be brave; I know she will be all those things you see in me."_

"_But," she added as she looked into his eyes. "She will be extraordinary- just like you."_

"_Like us." His hand gently pushed the collar of her shirt down the gentle slope of her shoulder._

_Slipping out into the hallway, he shut the bedroom door behind them, her hands never leaving his body._

_A swirling smoke filled her dark brown eyes, brimming with a quieted fire he yearned to see nearly every moment of the day, one that once he noticed, he made his sole duty to see it blaze into the night._

"_Flattery will get you everywhere." A throaty chuckle escaped her lips when his hands deftly pried apart an offending button keeping his touch from more of her skin._

"_And if it doesn't?" he asked, lowering his lips to the nape of her neck._

_One small hand covered his, another moved to another button._

"_Actions speak louder than words, you know."_

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"I can't believe this is happening." Breaking the heavy silence, Ryan shifted his eyes away from the captain for a moment.

If at all possible, the young Irishman felt even more uncomfortable by the time the captain had finished the story. Sure, he expected to hear nothing short of a fantastical tale the moment he walked into the captain's office, the kind of implausible core resting in the nexus of a case that Castle relished in every day. That was the only way this whole week could make any sense, he naturally assumed. It would have to take something like that, something unexpected and earth-shattering to get Beckett away from her desk, away from her murder board, for such a long period of time.

He had prepared himself, he honestly thought it did. His nerves steadied long before his partner called him into the room. It was his coping mechanism, his routine he had so intrinsically taken an affinity towards since his first crime scene. He checked his composure, willing himself to not belie any modicum of reaction, steeled and ready for anything the captain would say. He had prepared himself.

But, that was simply not enough.

It hadn't taken Montgomery long to get to the proverbial bomb lying under the mess of misdirection and cover-ups. The specter of Dick Coonan had come back with one more secret to share. And now, somewhere out there, his boss and her favorite author were undercover- and they're not coming back until it is finished- or worse. Somewhere they are running headlong into the gloom of an enigmatic shadow, incalculable in its breadth and reach- and all because it was a Senator's dying wish.

His stomach churned at the thought. He wanted to believe this was just a really bad prank, that in mere moments they would waltz in the door with a salvo of taunts and teases bubbling under their cheerful smiles. Yet, the pallor of fatigue and worry blanching his captain's expression was giving no quarter, no whisper of hope that anything of the sort would be happening.

"I know what you two are thinking," Montgomery spoke, his hand stilling before them pleadingly. "But I can assure you that both Beckett and Castle readily agreed to lead this investigation, with full knowledge of what their agreement would entail."

The rush of air that left Esposito was low and tempered. Still, he had yet to say a word. A part of Ryan began wondering if a few trickles of regret about ever bringing up Jim Beckett started seeping in him.

"You're telling us that Rathborne… that it's a group?" Ryan couldn't keep the incredulity from seeping in his voice.

"According to the CIA, they're the ones responsible for Senator Burbury and Dr. Paul Krashinko's murder." Montgomery replied. "From what Beckett last told me during the Marvin Decker arrest, the group is looking to be a massive drug syndicate."

"A syndicate." Ryan repeated uncertainly.

"Wait; let me get this straight…" His partner shook his head vehemently. He had yet to wrest the troubled frown from his features since the captain began his explanation. "No. No, that doesn't make any sense-"

"Javier, I don't know what to say-"

"How did none of this get picked up during the Coonan case?" Esposito hissed, pointing out towards the bullpen. Ryan's imagination didn't have to stretch much to know exactly where, or what, his partner was alluding to.

"Look guys," Montgomery interjected. "I'm not saying I believe it all myself; I'm just telling you what is going on."

_Not much to tell then, _Ryan mused mirthlessly. He had to feel a little bad for the captain. The man always radiated such a commanding poise in absolutely every decision and word that left him. He kept them as protected, as safe as any police officer could reasonably ask for at least. Yet looking at the elderly man, that stoic demeanor just wasn't there today- hell, it hadn't been there in a week. The man was just as lost as they were- worried and on edge- about the case, the implications it wrought, about everyone involved- _everyone_.

So Beckett hadn't contacted him in days, Ryan concluded. He wasn't sure if he should consider that a good or a bad thing. A barrage of unsettling images flitted across his mind, and the young detective blanched. They were somewhere out there with absolutely no backup this time, and the mere thought hurt him far more than he wanted to let on in front of his partner and boss. They could be anywhere. They could be dead.

"So, what do we do about Jim Beckett?" he asked, turning to his partner, hoping with all his might that the man would know exactly what he was hinting.

Montgomery reached for a worn, dirt-stained baseball by his name plate, pulling it closely to his collar. For a few moments, the captain remained silent, his stare blank and unfocused to some tiny space on the other side of the room.

"What does Jim Beckett know that we don't?" The captain mused. He twisted the ball a few times in his hand. "We have to find him; we have to know what he knows."

"Okay," Esposito plopped down into the seat next to him with a heavy thud. "So, what do you want us to do?"

"Pardon?" Montgomery said curiously, setting his gaze on Esposito.

Ryan turned to his partner as well, a grim smile already tugging at his cheeks. '_Til the wheels fall off, indeed._

"Where do we start?" his partner quickly stood to a rigid stance, squaring his jaw expectantly.

"Guys… I'm afraid I can't let-"

"Look, sir. I can't-" Ryan cut him off, albeit a bit guiltily. He motioned to his stone faced partner. "We can't just sit by and hope things turn out alright. I mean, yeah, I'm worried about Beckett and Castle- but it's her dad, sir."

"There's no telling where he is." Esposito agreed with a nod. "And before the case, before all of this Rathborne mess, that man is her family. It will destroy her if something happens to him."

Montgomery looked thoughtfully between them for a moment.

"Alright, what do you two propose?" He asked.

"We have to tell her, captain." Esposito said somberly. "I keep thinking about him coming here to see her, sir. He was rattled, he was desperate."

His partner paused a moment, pursing his lips tightly. "And from what he said before left, I'm positive he wasn't visiting to give her some information, it wasn't a friendly hello- I think he came to say goodbye, sir. He knows something about this case… something that scares him enough to keep it from his daughter. He's out there right now, just like them, but I've got a feeling he has no idea how deep this thing goes."

A chill trickled up his spine as his partner's words sank in. He was right- the description that Esposito gave him about Beckett's father's behavior was unnerving, completely uncharacteristic of everything he knew about the man. She had to know, she had to be informed. Yet, he knew that the very moment Beckett learned of this development, she would drop everything she was doing to find him. And however far her and Castle had gotten into the case would simply vanish, taken from them with out any sympathy or mercy.

"We'll take up their investigation until he's found," Ryan supplied. "Well, if it comes down to it. Just don't let us sit by on the sidelines on this one, sir."

The captain's demeanor seemed to stiffen, his eyes casting to each of them pensively.

"Please." His partner intoned quietly.

For a moment, he could have sworn he saw Montgomery's lips twitch into a thoughtful smile. The captain stood up and opened the center drawer of his desk. Not a moment later, his phone came into view.

"Do you guys realize what you're asking for?" Montgomery said somewhat soberly, motioning the phone to each of them.

"She would do the same for us, sir." The tone in Esposito's voice carried forcefully, with not a hitch of doubt.

Montgomery began punching in a number, shaking his head almost disbelievingly.

"I'm proud of you guys." He said as he hit the tiny green send button. "I think you're nuts, but I'm proud of you nonetheless."

The detectives glanced at one another and shrugged. There was no turning back now.

"What are you doing, sir?" Esposito asked after a moment, nodding towards the phone.

"Booking you two a fun-filled vacation. I'm calling Brooks."

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Absently touching the fluffy white gauze covering the wound on his head, his gaze set on the last two figures shuffling out of the boarding tunnel.

"Stop picking at it, Castle."

"It's a battle wound," he replied, squinting his eyes up to his brows to see if he actually see any of the itchy cotton. "It took a lot of hard work to get this thing, and I honestly don't want it to go. It's a part of me."

"A part of you…" she mumbled while turning her gaze back to the elderly agent guiding Marcus DeWitt by airport security. "So, does that mean you're going to honor it by annoying it too?"

"Do I sense an allegory, Detective?" He bent down and picked up both of their bags. "I'm not going to base a novel on it, if that's what you're afraid of. I'm merely showering it with praise."

Beckett turned to him with a perturbed expression. "Are you really comparing me to a flesh wound right now, Castle?"

"And if I said your accusations cut me deeply, would you-"

"-say that you have terrible puns? Absolutely." Beckett smiled softly before nodding behind him. "Come on, Shakespeare. Our chariot awaits."

The amused looking detective brushed by him in a blur. By the time he turned around, he saw the fleeting frame of Beckett fall quickly into line behind the agent and the limping suspect.

Dashing to catch up, he stepped up beside her as they shuffled through the twin set of doors leading out of the building. What immediately met his eyes shouldn't have come as much of a surprise. This type of greeting was quickly becoming Brook's calling card. Some dozen or so yards beyond the portico sprawling along the building's façade, two large, black, non-descript SUV's waited.

'Two…" He muttered under his breath.

"We're taking two vehicles, Agent Brooks?" Beckett called to the agent as he was guiding DeWitt to the waiting grasp of two large men.

Brooks' shoulders seemed to slump for a moment before turning to them. Though, just as he was about to open his mouth, a tiny buzz emitted from his jacket. The agent sighed heavily, immediately pulling a small phone from his pocket.

"If you will excuse me for a moment," Brooks said impassively. "I need to take this call."

Castle looked to his partner, who shrugged tiredly in return. The agent strode further down the parking lot,

"If you will follow me, Mr. Rook, Mrs. Rook."

Castle recoiled at the sudden, impossibly close voice immediately. He whipped to his right, coming face to face with a rather unpleasant looking woman staring sourly back at him. Her eyes were narrowed and waiting, her pencil thin brows arched in a permanent, almost comical scowl- perhaps due in large part to her wispy gray hair being pulled so tightly into a solid bun on the back of her head that it was taking some of her forehead with it.

And on top of that, she didn't look too happy.

"Hi." He said uncertainly, slowly lifting up his hand in between them and waved.

"Please gather your bags and follow me." The lady droned.

"We're right behind you," he announced, forcing a smile.

Without another word, the woman turned crisply on her heels and made her way towards the closest vehicle. Odd, he mused. Watching the rather unnerving woman walk away, something rather curious occurred to him. Was this it? His glance dashed to the two burly agents and a sulking Agent Brooks far in the distance. Was this all of the 'joint task force' they were leading?

He gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. No, that couldn't be right. This case was too big for too few to be pursuing it; nevermind that the hallmark for the enormity of this situation was probably still nestled somewhere inside Captain Montgomery's desk- with the Presidential Seal embossed on its letterhead.

Yet…

Details, however innocently they presented themselves, rarely passed him any more. Throughout his more prolific years, Martha often recounted stories of a much younger version of him, albeit, the differences were slight. Yet, there always came a point in those unfurling tales where a picture of a small boy, teetering precariously on his toes with only wisps of frayed curtain threads veiling his presence and his thoroughly engrossed expression were conjured.

Stilled yet tremulously steeped in the passion pouring from the actors on stage, this spellbound boy would look on in rapture- much like the other innumerable dots of airy eyes rising in a soft, twinkling relief from the featureless black of the theatre's pulpit like an ocean of idle fireflies. Through animated, regaling tides of laughter and witticisms about this boy dreamer, she never faltered her charm, her fond smile. She never failed to remind those who so chose to hear of Richard Castle the child that while his affair with all of the pomp and opulence of the stage still carried on in his life- the story- the intangible threads that wove its way through all those scripts and props, twining and tethering actors and anticipation, was his first true love.

At times her tales were a coaxing, embraceable reminder for him, be it standing amidst a grizzly murder scene or composing one in the comfort of his home; there were deeper stories somewhere in those stages beyond the obvious- somewhere- and often stronger than the apparent.

The stage before him was no different.

There had been a quieted, curdling sensation flitting around the edges of his thoughts since Brooks' admission. He didn't know they were in Savannah. As unnerving as that morsel of information was, there was something else, something entirely more worrying beginning to loom over it. He tried his best to keep it at an oblivious distance since then, mentally swatting it away as if it were a bothersome pest. Unfortunately, like moths to a flame it coalesced- it drew breath the more his thoughts delved through the more miniscule specks of memories he had accrued since meeting the surly agent.

"Mr. Rook-" the lady chimed again.

"Right, right." He said quickly.

Beckett came in to view not a moment later to follow the agent. Catching her unreadable gaze as she passed, she tossed him a subtle quirk of a single brow, her eyes motioning pointedly to the SUV's.

Though his feet may have been following the stern woman to their ride, he couldn't take his eyes off of the elderly agent animatedly flapping his arms some ways in the distance. Castle realized it was the most emotion, possibly the only, he'd ever seen the man show. The agitation Brooks was obviously venting only halted for a brief moment when DeWitt was promptly shoved in the trailing SUV. When the large black door slammed behind the suspect, he seemed to grow even angrier.

A slight, almost imperceptible tug on the arm of his jacket broke his gaze. He was a little surprised to see their appointed vehicle already a mere arms stretch away. Glancing to his left for the source of the tug, he saw Beckett looking up to him, a furrow of concern etched on her face as her eyes motioned to the agent in the distance.

_Later_, he mouthed.

The lady took their bags as Castle made his way around the large vehicle and climbed in.

"I don't think my back will ever feel the same again." Beckett muttered, leisurely twisting and stretching beside him as she buckled herself in.

Castle hid a smile as he watched a deep frown stretch across Kate's cheeks as the SUV's engine clicked and slowly growled to life. Taking a moment to burrow a little further into his seat, he absently brushed the pad of a finger over the now dog-eared corners of the phone logs as Brooks slid into the front passenger seat and closed his door. Though the agent's tempered expression had returned in full force, Castle set his gaze upon him with all the scrutiny he normally reserved for a run-on sentence.

"Mr. DeWitt will be taking a separate vehicle." He said evenly, his head quickly nodding over to another SUV that crept slowly by them.

"Separately?" Beckett gave a curious frown. "Where is he going to be held?"

"Right now, that is not important."

Beckett immediately shot forward in her seat and it took quite a lot of restraint for him not to join her.

"But, sir-"

"I did not trick you, Detective Beckett," His deep voice filled the spacious cabin, silencing whatever protest she had conjured. "You two will be the first to interrogate Mr. DeWitt— I owe you that much."

"Then when is that going to happen?"

"As soon as possible, Detective…" Brooks paused for a moment. Ever so slightly, the agent leaned to his left, whispering a low, indecipherable command to the driver.

The quiet author turned his eyes to his partner, carefully gauging each subtle crease of her troubled brow, intently listening to the muffled, crunching sound of her fingers digging into the back of Brooks' leather seat. The undercurrent of force simmering and seeping through her eyes wasn't lost on him either.

"But first, we need to get you two situated." Brooks turned in his seat and pointed to both of them.

Her expression quickly turned to one of confusion.

"Situated?" She repeated.

The agent merely nodded slowly.

"Where are you taking us?" Castle glanced to Beckett, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"A belated wedding gift, Mr. and Mrs. Rook." A small, smile flitted across the agent's wrinkled cheeks before he turned back around in his seat. "We will be taking you to your new home."

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"_Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess, who lived in a magical castle in a far away land." He slowly turned the now dog-eared page, taking a moment to glance over to the tiny set of wide amber eyes peering down to the book in his lap. "This princess had all the dresses and boxes of rings and crowns any girl could ever ask for-"_

_A tiny hand appeared in his view, and one slender finger took to casually brushing along the corner of the page._

"_-But, she didn't have a prince to call her own. Through many restless nights, she would gaze up to the stars from the lone window in her room, wishing that one day her prince would come…" _

_Those tiny brown eyes slipped from his view, opting to hide for a moment under the gentle furrow of her brow._

"_Daddy?" her small voice tore his eyes from the page._

"_Yes, bug?" He turned to the next page._

"_What is a prince?"_

"_Haven't I told you hundreds of times by now?"_

_Her brows furrowed even further._

"_But I want to hear it again." Her light, squeaky voice gave no demand, no morsel of impatience, just a quieted shyness floating somewhere in the feathery timbre of her voice that he knew all too well- she was becoming more and more like her mother every day._

"_Well…" he tilted his head towards the milky blue ceiling, absently scratching the small stubbles of hair underneath his chin. "Do you want to hear the big girl version this time?"_

_She nodded fervently._

"_A prince…" he paused a moment, letting a small grin tug at his lips. "It's a loyal, honorable man. He protects those he loves."_

"_Protects?" the girl cocked her head to the side._

"_MmmHmm," he nodded and held up a balled fist with his middle knuckle jutting out._

"…_And he fights for them too." His eyes narrowed dramatically, and as he pursed his lips, he shook his fist. She promptly held up her own hands, her eyes dancing between his hand and her own as her fingers awkwardly curled into her palms. Yet, no sooner than when each of her fingers carefully tucked into their respective grooves, her tiny fists shook in the air, quickly accompanied with an utterly harmless looking scowl._

"_And do you know what else a prince is, bug?" he brought his hand back down to the thin book._

_She smiled and shook her head._

"_A prince, my dear… is a special someone who will one day steal your heart."_

_She gasped, her eyes widened in alarm._

"_No, I don't mean…" he held his hands up placatingly, biting his tongue to stave away a bubbling laugh. "I mean, it is someone you will fall in love with one day."_

"_Oh…"_

"_When that happens, will I get a castle of my own, daddy?" the little hand pointed at a set of large silvery towers on the page._

"_Yes, you will." He smiled at the girl's awed expression. _

_And thankfully, that day was far, far away, he told himself. _

"_Are you Mommy's prince?"_

_A chuckle left his lips. She was always so full of questions- a trait that seemed to be inherent in the women of his wife's family._

"_Yes, I am, bug." His arm tightened around her, pulling her and the large plush elephant in her arms closer to his side. "Yes, I am."_

Shaking his head quickly, the man brushed away a few errant tears from his eyes hoping to keep his focus just a few moments longer. His eyes skimmed to the very final line of the letter. The pen in his hand stilled above a blotchy pool of ink that had blossomed out from the last stroke he had made.

It had to be this way, he concluded with a grim frown.

She wouldn't understand the reasons, or the cryptic hints, he had written. She couldn't, he mused regretfully- not all of the answers were available to her. Yet still, he wanted her to know he was safe, he was doing this for her.

He placed the letter on his pillow and walked over to his closet. The moment he slid open its doors, he stretched his arm far into the shadowed reaches of its very back. When his hands grasped around the objects cool surface, he reminded himself that it had been twelve years since he last held it.

From the soft shadows, his hand emerged holding a small, slightly heavy steel box. Looking down at its lid for a moment, he gave a deep sigh as his thumb began rolling the thin dials of the combination lock to their rightful order.

A soft click met his ears and the man dared not to stop the stream of tears escaping his eyes any longer. He slowly opened the lid, revealing only one item- perhaps the most painful yet important possession he had.

A single, oddly shaped silver key.

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AN: Dun dun dun!


	16. The Running Man: Part II

**Chapter 16 – The Running Man Part 2**

AN: A big thank you to all of you who reviewed or added this story to their alerts! Also a special shout out to all of you anonymous reviewers since I can't reply to your comments- seriously, thank you for showing your continued interest. You guys are awesome!

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"Yes, her father…" Montgomery perched his phone on his shoulder, returning both of his hands to the wheel as the vehicle weaved through traffic. "No, Brooks! He just showed up…"

The sound of the captain's rising voice cut through Esposito's state of near slumber quite handily. The young detective bolted up in his seat, setting his eyes on the passing cityscape outside. In the backseat, Ryan was snoring away- his ears caught on to that apparent fact immediately. Esposito went to peer back to check on his partner, only to meet the Irishman's awkwardly braced foot twitching mere inches from his nose.

"He'll get up in a moment." The captain said as he turned the phone away from his lips for the briefest of moments before resituating it. "Alright Brooks, I'm listening…"

As much as Esposito wanted to be polite and ignore the conversation entirely, whatever the agent was saying to Montgomery was enough to make the captain visibly tense. It was enough to keep his ears veering to the whispered crackle of the agent's voice. But, judging from the frown increasingly cutting down the captain's cheeks, he would be hearing it soon anyway.

"I agree," he said. "So what do we do now?"

The captain motioned to him while humming some unknown affirmation on the phone. He was pointing ahead, his focus lingering some ways down the road. Leaning forward in his seat, his eyes followed the captain's hand to a large cluster of buildings looming ahead.

"Yes, I'm taking them there now." The captain said while nodding his head. "Alright, I'll inform them."

The captain shrugged the phone off of his shoulder and let it slide down to his lap, keeping his eyes trained on the buildings ahead as one hand shuffled around the flimsy wrinkles and ridges of his jacket until he pulled the phone into his hand.

"So what's the verdict?" Esposito asked.

The captain took one lingering look at his phone before slipping it into his jacket pocket.

"You're not going to like it." Montgomery's eyes flickered to him for a moment. "But Brooks won't have it any other way."

The beleaguered looking captain drew in a long breath before glancing over to him once more.

"Wake him up."

Esposito nodded slightly, steeling himself for whatever the agent had in store for him and his partner. He twisted a little in his chair and sent a half-hearted swat to the heel of Ryan's dangling foot.

"Huh…" Ryan jolted upright, looking around groggily. "What's the deal?"

"We're here." The captain said as he pointed towards a large building a few short blocks ahead.

Esposito leaned forward closer to the dash, his eyes scanning up and down a large silver complex looming over every building around it.

"That's their _cover story_?" an incredulous voice shot from the back of the vehicle.

He looked back to his partner, whose relaxed, bleary eyes weren't enough to overpower the tense edge in his brow. Turning back around to watch their destination come steadily closer, he allowed himself to drink in the small moment of silence as they pulled in the small parking lot of a massive, opulent apartment building.

"At least it looks like those federal boys are sparing no expense for them," Montgomery commented as the car slowly rolled to a stop. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, a large man in a peerless, hunter green suit jogged up to Esposito's door donning a cordial, welcoming smile.

"So what did Brooks say, Captain?" Ryan called from the back.

"I'll fill you guys in once we're in their suite." He nodded solemnly.

The detective pursed his lips, glancing sympathetically over to his boss. The man looked as though he'd aged decades from their trip alone.

"They have not been here yet, but once they're back from God knows where, Brooks will be taking them to live here for the duration of this investigation." Montgomery continued, nodding towards the building.

"Wait…" Ryan's hand shot up through to the front. "They know they're staying here, right?"

"From the very moment they accepted to join the investigation, well…" The frown on captain's face deepened before giving a heavy shrug. "They are to remain undercover."

"For how long, sir?" Esposito asked as the faint click of the captain's door opening washed through the tiny sedan's cabin. "How long will they be off the map?"

Montgomery sighed, his hand gripped around the door handle and seemed to still.

"Until it's over, Detective."

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"_It's a senior trip, honey. You need to let her live a little…"_

_With a worrying frown, he watched the retreating form of his teenaged daughter dash up the stairs, blazing a wake of unhinged fury and tears. The vibration of her door slamming seemed to ripple through the entire house._

"_You're not worried?" He whispered back._

"_About what?" she moved to his side. "About her making her own decisions?"_

_He nodded slowly._

"_I'm only as worried as any parent of a teenager would be." She replied._

"_You're not helping."_

_After a moment, he felt her small hand gently cup his cheek._

"_And you're not either." She said softly. "We raised her well, honey. And as much as we want to keep her safe, you know we can't forever."_

_The sigh that left his lips was low, painfully so. _

"_I know," he admitted, turning to his wife with an apologetic nod. "I just wasn't expecting this. I mean, yeah- next year and college is a different story. I'm prepared for that one, but not this. I hoped we'd have one more summer with her, you know? It just feels like she's-"_

"_-Growing up too fast?" his wife smirked knowingly._

_He looked up the vacant stairs, already wondering exactly how he was going to apologize to her._

"_Am I that predictable?"_

"_A little," she replied with a smile. "There will be times that she gets hurt. We can't stop that- but we can make sure she knows that we will always be behind her. She has us no matter what may come."_

_He had to ask one more thing, as loaded as the question so bittersweetly would be. It wasn't because he had a lack of faith in his daughter- quite the opposite, in fact. She was brilliant, she was strong in every way he hoped the very first time he cradled her in his arms. When it came down to it though, he couldn't help but wonder if he would be when the time came._

"_But do you think she's ready?" He said quietly, casting his eyes over to the couch, where the small form of a ragged and worn plush elephant sat forgotten._

"_Were we?"_

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He probably thought no one was watching, least of all, her. The casual gait of his steps never wavered the whole way to the vehicle or through their drive- though, neither did his sidelong glance. Sure, his brilliant blue eyes never lost their playful light, his smile still ever present and mirthful. But that didn't fool her, not at all.

"So, this is our new home, huh?" The author mused to her left, a curious glint forming in his eyes as he penned a few notes on the phone log. "Does it have any cool secret rooms? You know- panic rooms, a dungeon, ooh… a war room?"

"Again, no." The agent drawled tiredly.

"Agent Brooks, could you-"

"No, and I'm not explaining-" The agent twisted in his seat, clearly exasperated. He looked pointedly- and maybe a little sympathetically- over to Beckett. "Is he always like this?"

_And I wouldn't have it any other way_, a voice whispered in her thoughts. The ends of one brow quirked slightly, almost as if her body had become so finely tuned to the warring voices in her mind whenever Castle was the subject, that it was patiently waiting for the other, normally louder side to rush in and quell it before things got out of hand. But the self-reprimanding never came, and honestly she wasn't sure how to feel about that.

It was with a quiet admittance that she resolved to find out. The irony in her uncovering her feelings for the mystery writer like she typically approached a murder case was oddly appropriate. Yet that's what made their story, wasn't it? The clues were slowly coming to light, the plot was already being written- all that was left to do was to find the smoking gun. And though however briefly she had the time to be honest with herself, she had to admit that she was looking forward to it. It was unexpected, frightening, and exhilarating all at once - things had a way of doing that with Richard Castle in her life.

"One of his many talents, sir." She replied, rather surprised by the softness in her voice.

The pen the author had held in his hand stifled mid-stroke. For a mere moment, the author's expression was somewhere between bashful and befuddled. It was endearing. It was adorable.

She allowed herself to take in this small measure of reversion, to drink in the now familiar off-guard expression she never tired of invoking from him. For reasons that handily eluded her, it pleased her to more than she wanted to let on. Forgetting if only for a moment, that they were in the middle of something she couldn't screw up, that this was no common investigation or culprit to be taken down was immeasurably cathartic.

"If you say so," Brooks shrugged before turning back in his seat. After a moment, he pointed towards something far down the right side of the road. "In any event, that's it up ahead. You will have company."

Catching the rather agitated growl in the agent's voice, she chose to file it away and glance out the window to see her presumed home for the indeterminable future. She expected to feel the tell-tale weight of Castle's body shifting to her side to get a good look too, but felt no movement through the seat. Looking back towards him, she was immediately struck with how pensive he looked. Curiously enough, his eyes remained on the obstructed view of the agent.

Her eyes rested on then pen in his hand. Initially, she had heard the faint scratching of its felt tip minutes into the drive. Now his hand was as still as stone, and hovering a mere whisper over a small, fresh clutter of markings. Her curiosity piqued, she carefully leaned towards him, her eyes zeroing in on something veiled under the soft shadow of his wrist.

**Beckett- Brooks said Burbury was tied to Rathborne because of a ledger. Remember to ask for the ledger.**

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The swell of words currently lodged in Esposito's throat, for all intents and purposes, only needed to stay there for a few moments longer.

There was still a question bubbling its way to the surface, one that he honestly didn't want to give a voice to. It had been there all morning, gliding through him like a haunting specter each time he let his mind wander away. Worse, the chilly touch it gave had nothing to do with their current location, nor with whatever order he and his partner were about to receive. No, it was simpler than that.

Simpler and more troubling all at the same time.

For the past few minutes he sat patiently in the middle of a rather stiff couch. The captain vanished into the kitchen moments before. Ryan was waltzing around the spacious living room, peering curiously at each painting he passed. Oddly enough, the same heightened sense of awareness he always got crossing into a crime scene was creeping in his body. There wasn't a victim anywhere in sight, but that didn't take away from the fact that he felt a crime was about to be committed.

Montgomery said he wouldn't like Brooks' decision, and that didn't bode well at all for the young detective. He'd heard the captain's argument, not to mention the exasperation in his voice well enough to surmise things were about to get a whole lot more complicated. He knew with every fiber of his body that he couldn't leave Beckett and Castle out in the cold once everything was laid out in the open. That just wasn't him, not by a damned sight. He wasn't under any flowery illusion or so naïve to think this was going to be a walk in the park. Anything that would cause Beckett to leave her desk longer than a coffee break or an arrest would have to be seismic.

_But was it worth it?_

He could've kept his mouth shut about Jim Beckett- followed it up on his own. Honestly, at this point, he wasn't sure if the guilt from that would be any heaver than what he felt right now. Looking over to his partner, his shoulders sagged heavily. The young Irishman would have wanted in this too, he knew that, but that didn't ease his worries at all. The man was now a newlywed; he was still plying down the mortar to build a long, fruitful life upon. Some time in the near future, he would be a dad. He would be proudly carrying a bright eyed carbon copy of himself to parties and picnics to introduce the child to all of his aunts and uncles at the precinct.

Yet, the creeping idea that his curiosity might be the one thing that stopped all of that from happening hurt- a lot. Granted, he knew the both of them signed up for crazy, often dangerous things when they put on the badge, but this wasn't some simple pop and drop or lovers spat gone sour. This was something entirely darker, larger. He only hoped that whatever the near future had in store for them, they would make it out relatively unscathed.

He took a moment to still his thoughts, to cast a veil, however temporary it might be, over the distraught visage of Jim Beckett that remained his constant companion since the day he watched him dash out of the bullpen. He smiled tightly over to his partner, trying his best to put on a reassuring face. And for the first time that morning, a faint pang of nerves grazed across Esposito's spine.

"Let's get down to it then," the Captain reappeared through the wooden archway that led to the kitchen, a bottle of amber liquid clenched at the neck in one hand, and three small glasses scratching and wobbling against one another in the other.

"It's going to be that kind of discussion, huh?" Ryan muttered before unceremoniously melting into the plush back of a loveseat.

Montgomery sat the glasses down on a clear coffee table between the couch and the lone loveseat.

"You'll thank me later for the drink, trust me." Montgomery said as he poured whiskey to the brim of each glass.

"Well, at least this place is pretty cozy." Ryan said offhandedly as he picked up his drink. "Perfect little hideaway for those two to play house for a while."

He was right. The room they now occupied was settling and cavernous enough, plenty of room for Beckett to stash Castle's body, Esposito thought absently.

"Don't let Beckett hear you say that," Montgomery warned, shaking his glass towards the amused detective. "She'd probably kill all of us for thinking we're setting them up. And I want to see my pension someday, Kevin."

"Captain, you said my name." Gasping with mock astonishment, the blue eyed detective grinned profusely. "I'm blushing."

"Well," the captain smiled while looking down to his glass. "I'd say you two have earned it. You two have always made me proud. Always…"

The captain's mirthful voice died away.

"… What I'm about to ask of you two is not easy." He said after a moment.

A pang flitted through Esposito's stomach. He feared something like this. Brooks seemed like a play-by-the-rules kind of man, and even bringing up Jim Beckett had to break a few of them. This must be the captain's way of letting them down easy, he mused. The information was no longer theirs to pursue.

"You want us to go back to the 12th, sir?" Esposito asked hesitantly.

"Yes…" The captain gave a haggard sigh, "and no. You'll keep working on cases under Karpowski. But also, you will be working on tracking down Jim Beckett."

Esposito's sigh of relief was immediate. "Good, that's-"

Montgomery held up his hand, cutting off Esposito at once.

"And you will not tell her that he's missing."

Esposito shook his head, hoping he hadn't heard the captain correctly. "Sir?"

"Brooks wants you two to track down his whereabouts and protect him- from Rathborne, hell, from himself." Montgomery continued softly. "Find out what he knows and make sure Beckett has a dad to come back to when this shit-storm is over with."

"Sir," Ryan spoke up in a cautious voice, "I'm not comfortable with this."

"And you think I am, Ryan?" The captain raised an incredulous eye to him. "But it's the only way Brooks would have it. And I have to admit, it does make sense."

"Sense?" The shock in Esposito's voice was as clear as his anger. "Does he have any idea what it will do to her if we don't tell her?"

The young detective shot from the warm confines of the couch, far too riddled with nerves to stay still any longer.

"She's like our sister, Roy." He fumed, not even absently aware of how he addressed his boss. "If we kept her out of the loop on this one she would never, and I mean _never,_ forgive us."

"I know." Montgomery admitted, barely above a whisper. "But what do you think it'll do to her if she did know her dad was a potential witness?"

The captain's question had its effect, calming the detective down only enough to consider it.

"She would do what any of us would do," he replied. "She'd drop what she's doing and find him."

"And how would that make either of them any safer?" Montgomery looked over to the door and nodded.

"I don't understand-"

"In just a few minutes," Montgomery interjected, "Beckett and Castle are going to be walking through that door, and they're going to look a little different from the last time you saw them."

"Are they alright?" Ryan asked quickly.

Montgomery only replied with a shrug.

"They found and arrested a man by the name of Marcus DeWitt- but the both of them went through nothing short of a bar fight to get him. Brooks said that they were treated for a few wounds and minor concussions shortly after the arrest. And according to Beckett's debriefing, Castle nearly put Mr. DeWitt in a coma with a vase."

"Now I want you to think about that." Montgomery finished soberly. "If one ounce of focus had been away from either of them, just for a split second, I might be informing both of you about their deaths right now."

Feeling completely deflated, Esposito moved back to the couch. As much as it hurt, he knew exactly what the captain was implying.

"It's not just Jim Beckett we're protecting, is it?" Esposito posed, feeling a sense of fierce urgency completely wash out all the nervousness in his mind.

The detective looked over to his partner, watching a steely resolve already filling up the Irishman's eyes. However begrudging either of them felt about this turn of events, he knew that they now had a much greater responsibility to see through. If this is what they had to do to keep Beckett safe, he concluded, all hell couldn't stop them from finding her father.

A loud rapping at the door suddenly echoed through the room. Together, the three men stood; ready to welcome the two other pieces of their unshakeable family back home.

"You can count on us, sir." Esposito said mustering all the determination he could.

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_It had only been hours since left for the sanctuary of her apartment, though not before clutching tightly onto him as though she was afraid he would disappear if she let go. Under the ragged gasps for air, through straining voice and ebbing sobs, she told him what had happened the day before._

_She told him she killed the man who ripped their family apart._

_A soft sob left his mouth as lifted a small frame closer to his face. His watery eyes glanced to and from the frozen forms of his daughter and his wife hugging tightly to one another. The daughter was starry eyed, laughing delightfully about the contents of a box resting on both of their laps. His wife, ever the bashful one, chose to stick her tongue out to the camera in that moment. The picture was old, but it was one of the few mementos left that reminded him of a much better life._

_It was strangely fitting, he recalled. That throughout all of ways he so staunchly protected her, to keep her safe and happy when she was younger, she had chosen to become a detective. She was the one who decided to make it her life's ambition to ensure that her sadness never happened to another person. _

_In that moment, he began to wonder what how things would be if he had done the same for her._

_Regret was a tricky thing. In her first few years on the force, there were many restless nights he imagined his daughter somewhere in the city. Sometimes she would vanish into alleyways, narrowly dodging searing tips of lead; other times a great a looming beast of a shadow loomed over her fleeing form- and there wasn't anything he could do to help her. _

_There comes a very acute sense of powerlessness when the mind wants to ask what could've been, he thought somberly. Would she have taken such a perilous job if he had been there for her? Probably so, but at the very least, he never wanted to tempt fate again. He never wanted to have another shred of regret bear down on his shoulders when it came to his daughter._

_And as he looked down at the worn, slightly faded picture, he vowed that he would ready this time. He would keep her safe no matter the cost._

"Excuse me, sir?" A small voice inquired.

Shook from his thoughts, he tore his eyes from his old wedding ring to find a rosy-cheeked young woman peering at him from behind a black marble counter.

"Sir?" she called again. "Can I help you?

The elderly man slowly stood, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the old, worn ring.

"Is this your flight, sir?" the lady asked sweetly.

The man nodded slowly, not trusting his own voice to lift to even a hint of normalcy.

"And your ticket, sir?" the lady smiled, holding out her hand.

He brought his trembling hand down to the desk and gently pushed the partially folded ticket towards her.

The lady glanced at the ticket for only a scant second before looking back up to him with a beaming, gracious smile. She motioned him along to the long tunnel leading to his plane.

"Have a wonderful flight!" she said as he passed. "And enjoy your stay in Florence, Mr. Beckett."

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AN: The flashbacks that Jim Beckett has was originally spread out over five chapters to coincide with the interrogation of Marcus DeWitt.


	17. Sleight of Hand

**Chapter 17 - Sleight of Hand**

"Good morning, Sheriff!"

Sheriff Teague tried his best to hide his grumble directed towards the cheerful young woman waving to him behind the front desk. No one should be that happy on a Monday- hell, any weekday for that matter, he thought sullenly. Shaking his head, he tried his best to give the rookie a smile while tipping his hat to her. She was a nice kid, always helpful and by the book. However, there was still a part of him that wanted nothing more than to go home and unwind with his kids and a good, long nap.

His reluctance to even be making his way to his office had nothing to do with his commitment to work. He loved his job- who wouldn't want a free pass at using hand cuffs and sirens? No, it had nothing to do with that. His "mood", as his wife had so eloquently termed it, stemmed from the moment a very angry man with a sniper rifle decided to turn his vehicle into a modern art masterpiece.

His wife told him he should feel happy, lucky even, about making it through the weekend he just had. Special agents, old and abandoned houses packed with conspiracies and secrets, and topping it off by arresting the walking dead- so yeah, maybe he was lucky, but he was far and gone from being happy about it at all. After tending to a few cuts and scrapes, he left Rose Hill much later that night wondering what in the hell just happened. The place was thought of as nothing more than a haunted house by most of the locals for years, the kind of place that only held any sort of novelty for tourists and overzealous teenage boys aiming to impress their girlfriends.

Now it was cordoned off with city and state officials swarming through every nook and cranny of the old plantation house like termites, tearing the place apart to make sense of why a supposed dead man was about to be charged with attempted murder in New York. He'd heard from a few of his GBI friends of some of the strange things they'd found inside that place: shrines to old gods, cups of wine littered everywhere, even a fully functioning operating room. He didn't even want to think about how all of that could be related- nope- he just hoped with every piece of what was left of his pride that those two special agents that caught that hulking son of a bitch DeWitt would get those answers and let him know when it's all over.

"Oh, sir!" the rookie called to him as he walked by the desk. "There's a man in your office, says he has a few questions about the Rose Hill shootout."

"Reporter?" Teague asked, noticing a rather tall man calmly standing in front of his desk.

"Don't know, didn't get his name." she shrugged and motioned her head towards the long bandage covering most of his forearm- a memento from the shootout where a large shard of a window decided to say hello. "He said he knew Mister DeWitt, sir. That's the only reason I let him in."

The Sheriff sighed lowly. He was wondering when the circus would eventually come knocking.

"Alright, thanks Linda. I'll see what he wants."

Sheriff Teague tipped his hat once more to the rookie and made his way to his office. Shuffling into the tiny room, the man's somewhat young features creased and faded behind a bright smile as he extended a thankful hand. The sheriff took his hand and smiled warmly, though not before noticing the faint, but unmistakable, coarseness of dirt and muddy remnants embedded into the man's rough palm.

"Sheriff Teague," the man said with a slight bow of his head. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Absolutely no problem, Mister..." The sheriff stilled the handshake; an odd feeling began flickering in his nerves as the man's grasp momentarily tightened.

"My apologies. I'm Evan White." The man released his hand and casually gestured to the sheriff's seat. "Please."

_Odd_, the sheriff thought. It had been a while since he'd been directed to do anything. Keeping his eyes on the smiling man, he moved to his seat without a word.

"So what can I do for you, Mister White?" he said after situating himself as close to his desk as possible.

"I'm here about Marcus DeWitt." The man made a small motion with a thumb to the outer lobby. "I have a few questions about him."

The sheriff hesitated as he looked at the man, positive his tightly pressed frown was exuding every bit of skepticism his instincts were screaming. He didn't look official at all; at the very least unlike the ones currently crawling all over Rose Hill. The man was wearing a thick pea coat, obscuring most every other part of him; the collar, dog-eared and tattered, belied splotches of wear and fade that peaked out from the shadows between it and the man's neck like sickly spots of pallor flesh. The man hadn't shaved in a while either, and the chalky-grey bags under his eyes entailed that sleep was likely in the same boat. No, the sheriff mentally noted, definitely not a Fed.

"Well, I wish I could help you. However, Mister DeWitt is a suspect in a federal investigation a little far beyond my pay-grade." He paused, offering a sympathetic smile to the man. "If you're not a family member, I'm afraid I can't-"

"He's an old friend, sir." The man interjected suddenly. "I thought he was dead."

"We thought so, too." The sheriff admitted.

"We served together during my first tour- Kuwait. I was in the same unit as him in Desert Storm," the man explained. He rolled up his sleeve to the midpoint of his forearm, revealing a small tattoo of a skull that looked to be smoking a very nasty looking assault rifle.

"I... I thought he died 20 years ago, K.I.A." The man leaned forward, carefully placing his hands on the edge of the desk. "I'm not asking for much, sheriff. I don't want any details that might get you in trouble."

"Well..." the sheriff sighed. Protocol often demanded he look the other way no matter how much he wanted to say, but Teague knew exactly what the man sitting across from him was going through. Being a former vet himself, he recalled the times he wondered where his old friends might have disappeared to as well.

Teague nodded, making up his mind. Friendships forged in service were family members in every way but blood as far as he was concerned. In any event, even though it looked like this man was further in the dark about Marcus DeWitt's life than every investigating officer was, he was hoping some of his past could be brought to light.

"Alright, look," the sheriff began. "As a non-family relationship goes, I can't tell you anything specific. From vet to vet though, we honestly don't know what is going on. Honestly, I'm hoping you might know some things that could help us."

"I'll... try my best, sheriff." The man stood from his chair and paced to the office door, his hands disappeared into his coat. "May I?"

"Sure," Teague replied absently, patting his shirt pocket for his notepad. Not feeling its familiar outline, his eyes jumped a tiny vacant spot inches away from his phone where it often rested. Shrugging to himself, he returned his full attention back to the man in front of him. He didn't need those notes anyway for this.

"I was wondering..." The young looking man's vacant eyes seemed to flicker for a moment. "The papers in Atlanta didn't say much- just a man thought dead for years was alive. It said a gunfight broke out at Rose Hill. He mentioned the place a few times to me, and I knew the moment I read the article it had to be him."

Teague nodded with a frown. "He's alive, I can guarantee that. Alive and doing a little more than kicking. He's on his way to New York right now."

"New York?" The man furrowed his brows. "Why is he going to New York?"

"It's not my place to say, son. Two special agents that were involved with a recent murder investigation here suspect him in the shooting-"

"Michael's murder?" the man interrupted. "They were here to investigate his brother's murder?"

"Oh, you knew him as well? Well, to tell you the truth… not exactly," Teague paused for a moment and gave a small shrug. "They were here to question Michael as part of investigation they were already doing. Too bad a torn up ticket to Italy was all the got from it."

"Oh," the man stilled. "I see."

After a moment of silence, Teague turned to face the man. "So you knew him from the Gulf War? Where were you two stationed-"

"I see." The man repeated, his eyes focused on something in the lobby.

Tilting his head in confusion, he wasn't sure if the man heard him or not. Before Sheriff Teague could open his mouth, the man jerked the office door wide open.

"Thank you, Sheriff. I appreciate your candidness."

"Mister White, is something-"

"I'll see myself out."

With only a flickering glance back to the wide oak desk as warning, the man promptly slipped through the narrow threshold and vanished from sight, leaving the sheriff more confused than when he first arrived.

A sinking feeling began to pool in his gut as the image of the man's tattoo emblazoned in his mind. There were seldom times in his life he immediately knew that something was not right; even in his line of work, the strange weight currently settling its way down to the tips of his toes didn't happen often.

"Linda!" he shouted from his chair. A sudden screech of a chair echoed through his door, and not a moment later, he heard the tell-tale patter of her feet jogging over the lobby's linoleum floor growing louder and louder.

"Yes, Sheriff?" Leaning in through the doorway, the rookie's eyes darted to the now vacant chair on the other side of his desk.

"I need you to run a name for me."

She quickly pulled out a tiny notepad and pen.

"Is this about that guy?" she asked, pointing the pen behind her.

"Evan White. He said his name is Evan White." He said gruffly, ignoring her question entirely. Something was off. Something was way off. "Run that name through our records, state records, and national. You got it?"

"Alright, I'll get right on-"

"And if nothing turns up there, get in touch with those two agents that were here or somebody that knows them." He stood from his chair and frantically scanned around the papers and folders littered all over his desk. Yanking open each drawer, his hands jumbled and jostled through stack upon long forgotten stack of files and older notepads.

"Sir?"

_It better be on your nightstand_, a voice roared in his mind. With increasingly trembling hands, he tore his tiny cell phone from his pocket and roughly pressed his thumb to the number simply titled 'Home'. It was all in there, he remind himself as the dainty song of his wife's dial tone pierced into his ears, everything from the past forty-eight hours was in that damned booklet.

"Sir, what's wrong?"

The conversation with his wife was over in the span of two ragged breaths. He warily looked down to his desk, back to taunting void by his phone. He slumped back into the strangely cold crutch of his chair, and the only thought he cared to acknowledge was if his week had just gotten a whole lot worse.

"Run that name, Linda." He looked up to the nervous girl. "Get me something on that name."

"Oh... Yes, yes sir."

She moved to walk away only to be stopped by his voice mid-stride.

"...and Linda?" His hand stilled over his empty shirt pocket for a moment. "How long was that man in my office?"

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AN: Chapter 33 in finished! I can't wait to see what you guys say about it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next one will be up around the same time tomorrow.


	18. Wicked Games

**Chapter 18 - Wicked Games**

"I think we're here," Beckett whispered, giving him a quick nudge on the arm.

As he looked up from his musings sprawled across the phone log, one of her slender hands slipped into view inches from the tip of his nose. A single finger lifted, extending towards what looked like a near endless façade of gothic stonework and immaculate stained glass now mere feet from his side of the vehicle.

Craning his neck, his eyes scaled up the imposing building as far as the small, sloped window would allow. He gave a low whistle at the sight; for what was supposed to be a temporary, however arduous investigation, at the very least this little part of their cover story looked to be a comfortable one. And more than anything, in that moment, that was all he wanted.

_For both of them._

A strange feeling seemed to rustle his thoughts as his eyes landed on paired, dancing lengths of pearly curtains fluttering through an open window some ways up the building. A creeping oblivion of fatigue was in there, somewhere. A dull ache still thrummed along the cut on his forehead. Yet there was another sensation, neither dormant nor alien, demanding its due. This ache felt a little deeper, a little sharper, and it twisted a little more each time the image of Beckett's unconscious form lying at the feet of Marcus DeWitt fitfully seeped back into this thoughts.

It didn't take much of a stretch to divine why it was there, or why it had been his tireless companion for the past twenty-four hours. He remembered assuring her that he had her back, and those telling amber eyes of hers shining in reply before they went their separate ways into Rose Hill. In the end he kept his word, to be sure. The massive knot on Marcus DeWitt's head was proof of that. But that wasn't enough for him, not by a long shot. For many others in his life, his word simply sufficed. Not for her though, every fiber of him refused to settle for that.

He wasn't naïve. He had no illusions, no rosy assumptions that every case was going to be a walk in the park- and neither did she. There had been many close calls in the past, whispers of seconds where acceptance of his mortality proved louder than any hail of gunfire cocooning around him. He knew the perils of Beckett's profession as intimately as the moods of her eyes. His craft, and not to mention his three years being her partner practically demanded a staggering compendium of what the phrase 'what's the worst that could happen' really meant. It was his job to imagine the worst possible scenarios. But, this was different.

It could have been the strewing, labyrinthine tangle of dead ends and like-minded bodies that he and Beckett had so restlessly pressed through in the past six days that gave him pause- that made him yearn for just a moment to think, to gather his wits and all the things they had experienced into some semblance of a cohesive, somewhat believable tale. It could have been Rathborne, the riddle, the brush with death so far away from home. Whatever the source was, he knew in that moment there were places in his mind he needed to search when given the time. And most of it had to do with the woman sitting next to him.

Yet, there was a balance he knew he had to walk no matter how much further he travelled down that road. On one hand, he knew that Beckett didn't need any knight in shining armor. He'd seen her slay enough inner demons and rampaging dragons to understand that completely. But that was before he helplessly watched her body being roughly slammed into a wall by that bull of a man. That was before every fiber in his body unceremoniously exploded with a fury he didn't know he possessed. There was a time, he mused, when he thought that suspense was the most heart-stopping emotion to pen. But now- now, that accolade belonged solely to a more unexpected state.

It would have been a total lie if he tried to tell himself that things weren't changing between them. Not so long ago, a fan he chatted with at a meet and greet asked him how long it would take to squeeze all that he saw in Detective Beckett into the character of Nikki Heat. Months? Years? Try a lifetime, was his unexpected reply. There were so many things about her that demanded nothing less.

The thing that terrified and exhilarated him about that singular thought was wondering not only if it were possible, but if the world would grant him enough time to find out.

He felt Beckett's weight shift next to him, a sweet fragrance gently enticing his attention growing in power and presence. A small smile tipped the corners of his lips as long locks of brown hair moved beside him, obscuring vibrant, roving amber eyes he just knew were brimming with as much curiosity as his.

"That's a big cover story," her musings floated across the few inches from his ear.

"My thoughts exactly," he replied as watched her carefully lean back to her seat. "Do you think they will let us pick up some things from our places at some point?"

"I imagine- well, I hope so," she said with a heavy sigh, tapping her fingers against her rather small bag that was still resting by Castle's left foot. "I can't wait to get out of these clothes..."

Castle's slowly widening eyes swiveled directly to hers, with thousands of replies immediately clamoring their way to the tip of his tongue. But he waited; content in watching her neutral expression turn more and more to confusion until...

"Not a word..."

"Why, Detective Beckett..."

"Castle..." Her warning tone simmered all the way up his spine, her soft lips retracted into a dire frown. It was adorable, to be honest- she seriously thought that look was going to stop him.

"You know," he said, deepening his voice. "I would be more than happy..."

"Castle." She repeated darkly, followed by a glare that he could see breaking lesser men.

"Yes...?" He gave a tortuous smile as he drew out his reply.

Her glare stilled for a moment, and to his surprise, her features softened. She smiled widely, though the blush in her cheeks seemed to grow deeper.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"A little bit," he chuckled and turned his attention back to the hotel. Pulling the two duffel bags up to his lap, he watched Brooks slip out of the front seat and scurry towards the lobby.

"I take it you're glad to be back home, Detective?" he asked.

"Yes- well, and no too," she conceded with a low, tired voice. "I just can't shake the feeling that we missed something in Savannah- something about Burbury's involvement, something about that plane ticket- I don't know."

Castle nodded softly. He knew the feeling all too well. There had already been numerous times in this case he felt as though his focus was being pulled in countless different directions. What's worse, he knew without a doubt that they had only just begun to scratch the surface.

"I'm happy to be back," she continued. "But believe me when I say I'll be happier once I hear people call me by my real name instead of-"

"Mister Rook, Madame Rook! Welcome, welcome!" A thick, rolling Irish brogue promptly tore Castle's attention away from the viewing of his temporary new home- quickly followed by a terribly concealed groan from Beckett.

An elderly greeter came rushing forward seemingly out of thin air, his silken-gloved hands gingerly claiming the two duffel bags off of Castle's shoulders before he had completely stepped out of the SUV. The embroidered, wispy tails of his crisp green jacket billowed in the soft gusts winding through the hotel's tiny portico as he fluttered back to its entrance, chuckling far too merrily all the way.

"Welcome, welcome! Back from the old honeymoon, are ye?" the man grinned knowingly, casting his twinkling green eyes from Castle to his curiously blushing partner. "I guess congratulations are in order, wouldn't ye say, sir?"

"Thank you-"

"Well, wasn't a' the wedding and all that, but here's me mothers favorite toast fer wha' it's worth." Just as Castle thought the man was going to run into the door, he turned on his heels and gave a long, rolling cough. The man's thick, peppered grey mustache twitched for a moment as he brought a single, dramatically posed hand high above his head.

"May the best o' your past," he paused and smiled, "be the worst o' your future."

"Um," Beckett looked to Castle, looking utterly baffled.

"Thank you," Castle gingerly shook the elderly man's hand, making a mental note to analyze that toast later.

"Call me Andy," a rosy tinge bloomed in his dimpled cheeks as he motioned one hand through the sliding glass doors. "Not my name and all, but- oh hey, the concierge will have yer keys! He's the dainty little fella flutterin' around those petunias in the lobby. Hard to miss. I'll see these to yer rooms, lovebirds."

A cool rush of air assaulted his senses the moment he stepped into the grand lobby. Ahead, he saw Brooks and a few other poorly blended-in agents talking with the concierge. Making their way over to the group, Castle introduced himself and his 'wife' and immediately inquired about their keys.

A few minutes later, Castle bid the hotel manager a good evening before following Beckett and the lumbering form of Brooks into a waiting elevator. Absently watching the last slither of the main lobby vanish behind the closing doors, a tired, yet pleased sigh left his lips the moment he very the gentle tug of the elevator shifting to life.

Soon they would be grilling DeWitt for all he was worth, and though his eyes were feeling heavier with each passing moment, the rush in knowing more pieces to this gigantic puzzle would soon be unveiled nearly had him bouncing on his heels. But another thought occurred to him, something that Brooks mentioned in passing on their way that brought a new wave of curiosity coursing through his brows. It was time to meet their guests.

The phrase 'you will have company' meant a great, many things to him.

Coming from his mother, chances were inordinately high that the maid services bill would be nothing short of jaw-dropping the next day. From his agent, that simple warning typically entailed a lengthy rapport with a room full of equally tailored suits and smiles. The said phrase uttered by a dark, brooding Federal Agent meant something entirely more acute to any self-respecting crime novelist, something more up his figurative alley.

Smokey forms of darker, enigmatic agents- more apparition than flesh- conjured in his thoughts. Their pasts: specters manifested, nameless and brimming with baleful intent, as slippery as shadows rushing from flames. Their lives: faceted like diamonds, as whispered and untouchable as their existence. Their voices were as ominously masked, sieved through years of paranoia and countless cigarettes before it even left their fickle tongues; jarring and crackling, scraping like jagged rocks over granules of sand.

In a word or so, the kind of company he'd rather just keep in his books.

"We'll only be here long enough for you to unpack your luggage," Brooks said through the corner of his mouth, his eyes immediately setting upon something beyond the opening elevator doors, "... and to meet your guests."

"Understood," Beckett replied, giving a quick nod towards the agent as she and Castle hurried to follow him.

"I'll be transporting you to his holding site once you're ready." One of his long, bony fingers shot straight towards a door at the far end of softly lit corridor. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"Understood," Castle echoed. He moved to follow Beckett out of the elevator when she came to a sudden halt in between the closing doors.

"Oh, Agent Brooks?" she braced an arm against the closing door, and pushed it back. "Do you have that ledger for us?"

Castle cracked a small smile; so she saw his notes after all.

"Pardon?" the agent said behind him.

"You know; the ledger that you confiscated from Burbury's desk." She replied nonchalantly as she turned her face slightly back to the agent. "You promised us an_ undoctored_ copy within the week."

"I can have it for you within a few hours," he drawled after a moment.

"Excellent." Take he hands off the door, she gave a quick nod and moved out into the corridor. "Thank you, sir."

Taking a moment to watch Brook's rigid form disappear behind its shiny metal doors, Castle turned from the elevator and hurried down the hallway until he came to the side of his smiling partner.

"I'm glad you remembered," he said. "I honestly feared he wouldn't take it so seriously if I had asked."

"Didn't think I would notice your message, Castle?" She replied, looking down to the face of the keycard. "That's us up ahead- 453."

"I knew you would," he said as they arrived at the door. "I figured with as much as you were gazing at me on the ride over, the laws of probabilities were clearly in your favor."

"Touché," Beckett chuckled and began to insert the card into the door.

"Wait!" he said suddenly.

Setting the two duffel bags down beside him, he tapped her on the shoulder and braced his stance.

"Jump me."

"Well, that-" she glanced down to his waiting arms. "Wait, what?"

"Jump," he nodded down to his open arms. "It's tradition for newlyweds, you know."

"Tradition," she repeated skeptically as she slipped the keycard in.

He nodded quickly. "It brings good luck. It's a lovely tradition, really. Over the threshold, into our new home... straight to bed."

"Apart from this being a cover, you are forgetting something very important, Castle." A tiny green light appeared and she pulled out the keycard.

"Well, you do have your handcuffs, so I think we can improvise." He said with a growing smirk.

"Oh no, not that," came her cryptic reply.

Beckett turned to face him, a strange glow curiously blooming in her features. She took a small step towards him, and the next thing he knew, his entire focus drew to the parted set of plush, crimson lips a few tortuous inches away from his. Somewhere in the sudden wave of her body heat pouring into his heightening senses, his grin dissolved away. Then, every nerve in his body seemed to ignite when he felt a soft, warm hand press gently into his chest.

"It's something... better than that."

"Oh?" he said slowly, his eyes dancing between her lips and her hand.

"Oh yes, Rick. It's something very, _very_ important." A low throaty chuckle rose from her lips as he felt one of her fingers begin to glide in small, methodic patterns.

"Um..." he croaked softly, his eyes following the trail of heat her wandering fingers were stoking. "What- what is it? I can, you know, go pick it up if you want."

She paused her movements, slowly raising her smoky amber eyes to his.

"I've seen how you react around spiders..." she said just above a whisper. "So, don't you think it would be more appropriate if I carried you?"

A deep breath he didn't know he was holding came out in an odd mixture of a groan and a whimper. She turned back to the door, donning a look of unadulterated smugness. _That was low_.

"You're never going to learn, are you?" she laughed softly. "Oh, and if there's only one bed in this place, guess who's getting the couch?"

"Meow," he muttered dejectedly, quickly pawing in the air at her as she turned back to the door.

Still desperately trying to recover from the sensation of her proximity, and hopefully a little bit of his pride in the process, he bent down to pick up the bags intent on getting in one final parting shot.

"So which room are we going to christen first, dear wife?" he said cheerfully as he heard the door squeak open.

"In your dreams, dear-" her playful tone suddenly ceased. "Captain?"

The confusion in her voice caused the author to look up from the bags, and his brows immediately buckled upward. Holding a half empty glass of honey brown liquid in his hands stood Captain Montgomery, tipping it towards them cordially.

"Detective, good to see you in one piece." He motioned his glass over to Castle. "Do I want to know what he was just implying?"

"Captain?" he echoed dumbly, not quite understanding what was going on.

"Welcome home, you two." A very familiar voice rang out somewhere within the room.

"How was the honeymoon?" Another shouted. "Hey Javier, this place has a fully stocked mini-fridge..."

Peering over the Captain's shoulders, he saw two beyond smug smiles beaming right back at him- and a couple of beer bottles dangling enticingly above their heads.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-**

AN: Very little needed to be revised for this chapter. Thank you for checking it out and let me know what you think. Chapter 19 will be up tomorrow!


	19. Brothers in Arms

**Chapter 19 - Brothers in Arms**

There was only one other time in his life he'd ran this fast.

Even over the freshly waxed linoleum zipping underneath his feet, a smaller, hushed part of his mind almost had him convinced that plumes of coppery dust were wafting high in his trail, staining his heels, and blotting the sweat blooming over his harried brow. He'd been scared that time too- even in the gloom of that fleeting, hazy Georgia sun so long ago, he could have sworn he glimpsed a tremulous doom setting in his mother's eyes, searing through the gravel and mud his feet were tearing up from the old road. Each time he chanced a look back over his shoulder, nothing was there, nothing but an ever vanishing grove of oak and hanging moss. But each time his much younger self turned back to the trail leading to his home before him, those chilly tendrils of dread would return, glancing over his bare neck, seeping far beneath the open scrapes on his knees and hands almost as if flesh wasn't there to balk it away.

"Sheriff!" Linda shouted frantically, lifting somewhere from the throngs of stupefied onlookers and the building's usual inhabitants still frozen in the wide berth his haste had torn apart.

There was the same bewitching fear now curdling its way through every pore of his body, stemming the ache thrumming through his thighs far from his mind- each thrush towards his destination coaxed it deeper, however, deeper until all the innumerable faces he was rushing by took on the visage of the man that put it there.

He felt foolish, incomparably humiliated. It didn't matter how quickly he'd sent an APB out to the entirety of Chatham County, complete with perhaps the most vivid description of any suspect that had crossed his path in 22 years smothering the entire southeastern coast of the state within minutes. Evan White- or whoever the doppelganger using his name was- was long gone.

He had been in his bedroom, frantically searching even the most implausible of hideaways in the room when Linda called. It might have been the inflected panic in her voice that brought on the encumbering chills still nipping at the heels of his feet. But it was her words that moved him, that caused him to push friends and colleagues out of his way with nary a regard filling his eyes.

_Sheriff, I think you need to find those two agents..._

As the fate's would have it, the town hall's diminutive records room looked like tiny cave in a swathe of mountains, completely dwarfed at every feasible passage to it by cluster upon burgeoning cluster of languorous staff. He tried to scream at them, to move them through any means other than trampling headlong over them. Each time though, he slammed into what seemed like the most immovable of men; each time he was stopped for the briefest of moments, he felt a familiar pair of burning eyes stalking closer and closer.

"Sheriff! Over here!" Linda's voice grew sharper, closer, even seemingly cutting through the incensed yelps and curses growing in count behind him.

"Move!" he growled at a petrified, bespectacled man. "Move, damnit!"

"Sheriff Teague! What has gotten in to you!" the old bailiff barked hoarsely just as he, too, vanished in the blur of people clamoring out of his way.

"Eric, get the Mayor down here!" he called back to the elderly man as he desperately muscled through another tightly compacted group.

"The mayor-"

"Now Eric!" he roared, not bothering to turn to see if the old man had budged.

The very moment he caught sight of Linda, he promptly grabbed her hand and barreled into the record room's foggy glass door and heaved it open. Making absolutely sure not a single soul trailed behind them, he quickly slammed the door shut and flipped its lock. No sooner than when his hand left the rusted old door handle, he quickly dropped his hands to his knees and hunched over, fervently trying to catch is breath.

"Are you alright?" Linda bent a little, peering worriedly at him.

Holding up a placating hand, he warily lifted his head. The room was thankfully void of any other person. Apart from a lone table holding a half-drunken cup of coffee a few paces behind Linda, it honestly looked like the room hadn't been used by anything but moths in the past decade.

"Forgot how big the parking lot was, that's all," was his hoarse reply.

"Did you find your notebook?" She asked quietly.

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry, sir. For what it's worth."

"Neither here nor there now." Filling his lungs with one more deep breath, he carefully stood back up.

"Please tell me you were joking, Linda." He hissed through a few labored breaths as he looked back at the door. "Tell me you were joking about Evan White."

Linda made no reply for a moment, and as she stared somberly at him, she slowly lifted up a single sheet of paper- stapled to it at its very bottom were two small, glossy photographs. Though his eyes instinctively cast to a familiar seal branding sheet's letterhead, it took only the span of a deep ragged breath for his eyes to zero in Linda's unusually jittery handwriting above the pictures.

_**Evan Nathaniel White**_

"I checked everywhere for his name," she began in a small, almost pleading voice. "I checked the county and state records all the way back to the 50's- nobody with the name Evan White matched his description."

_This can't be happening, _he mused, desperately hoping to stave off the tremors settling into his hands.

"Then I got an idea, you see. I figured, well, if that guy you and those two agents arrested at Rose Hill was ex-military, well..." She paused in a wanting clip of her breath, almost as if she were apologizing for every word he was soaking in. "I called the GBI, and they found him. They found both of them."

_**Marcus Bruce DeWitt**_

"They contacted Washington," she continued, "and I wasn't on hold for longer than five minutes when I suddenly had about three different people on the same line bombarding me with questions about him."

_**12th Bravo Company - Iraq**_

"I tried to explain to them that the name popped up in relation to a case that just landed in our laps. They must have thought I was joking; they wanted to defer me to a national missing person's database. Then I told them about DeWitt, Sheriff- about him shooting up the place here. And about two minutes after I said his name..."

She paused again, taking a deep breath as her other hand moved over the paper, until one finger stopped over the final line she wrote.

"...they all went silent."

_**Both men Killed In Action - February 6, 1991**_

His legs nearly gave out from under him as he looked down to the picture of Evan White, and his worst fears were confirmed. The young man in the photo was not the man that had visited him.

"What the hell is going on, Linda?" He looked up from the sheet of paper, immediately seeing a few errant tears tracing her cheeks.

"I'm not in trouble, am I?" her voiced trembled. Slowly, her small frame began to shake. "I did like you said; sir- but they were yelling at me so loudly! They began asking where DeWitt was, where this Evan White fellow is! They said they were sending somebody down here and speak to me, and I... I didn't know what to say!"

Promptly dropping the paper to the ground, he gently pulled the sobbing cadet into his arms.

"You're not in trouble," he said, trying to wipe all the hesitancy wanted to rush into his voice away. "You did a fine job."

"But they're sending-"

"I'll take care of that," he cut her off. "When will they be here?"

"The man I last talked to said..." she cleared her throat and meekly backed away from his chest. "He said two hours, sir. Some guy will meet us at the station in two hours."

He sighed as he bent onto one knee. He craned over the paper, his eyes locking on to the real Evan White's face, and he gently picked it up. He never wanted to be a detective; mysteries were more a fickle mistress than a hopeful pursuit to him. Dead ends and dark places, his grandpa would say, that's exactly the kind of thing this was. That was exactly the kind of thing he'd been running from since he was a child.

But...

That wouldn't work this time. No matter how unnerving it was to look at the pictures of those two ghosts now resting in his hand, he knew he had no choice in the matter.

"When we get to the station, I'm going to call Agent Brooks." He said calmly. "I want to get in touch with him before our guest arrives."

"You sure we're not in trouble?" she asked.

A small, curt nod was his only reply; he didn't have the heart to say what he really felt.

He closed his eyes and silently motioned Linda to lead the way out- and somewhere in the vast blackness of his consciousness, he saw that old dirt again.

He saw the countless gnarled, looming moss-ridden oak branches swooping down upon him with hungry grasps, biting claws. He remembered the widening maw of that moonless night enveloping the world around him. He remembered shadows- living, stalking shadows closing his path down to a thin strip of pallor grass. He remembered seeing the faint lights of his house piercing through the coming tree line just before the forest ate him whole.

There was only one other time in his life that he had felt this scared.

"Everything will be fine, I promise you." He finally said to her as she passed. "Everything will be fine."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-**

**AN:** Next update will be here tomorrow!


	20. Dead Ends

AN: And here we go! Very sorry I couldn't post this yesterday. Enjoy!

**Chapter 20 – Dead Ends**

Jotting notes down as quickly as he could, Anthony Thatcher's eyes quickly chanced a glance over to the makeshift office a few paces away, narrowing on its door's dull grey handle. A small part of him was hoping- nay, praying to whatever deity that could hear him that it would turn soon- though only until the man on the other end of the phone line exploded into a reinvigorated, fitful cacophony of names and dates.

"Sir, slow down-" he repeated to the distressed caller. "Right, yes. I heard you… I know, but I'm afraid he's in a meeting right now and he can't-"

He couldn't help but flinch when the caller's voice grew louder, keen on belting out the same set of names over and over- DeWitt, White, urgent- and not for the past five minutes had that mantra stopped. He was on his last sliver of patience, and if it weren't for the fact the stranger was specifically asking for his boss, he would be gladly letting the man continue his conversation with the dial tone.

When he was informed that his first official assignment was in New York, to say he was ecstatic would have been a vast understatement. Images of stratospheric skylines and dark, secretive meetings sprouted unbidden and tangible, childhood fantasies soon to become flesh. It was the moment he'd practically deserted his quaint hometown to see to fruition. For that singular moment, he felt shamelessly giddy, impervious to even the tiniest whisper of regret.

Then he met Agent Nathaniel Brooks.

He'd first heard about Brooks at the academy, and no matter who the storyteller was, be it the greenest of cadets to the most hard-boiled instructors- the man's name crept from their lips quietly, tepidly. He heard of traumatized interns, deplorable evaluations, and his new boss playing judge, jury, and executioner to all of them. The stories were wild and unbelievable, varied in scope or the teller's obvious embellishments, but they always ended the same. You see too much in your career, their sagely parting advice concluded, and you'll end up just like him- friendless, hopeless- a robot in a tailored suit. He was the agency's very own boogeyman.

He didn't want to believe any of it. How could he be a devil to anyone but the people they were tasked to catch? So he followed his gut, he chalked it up to hearsay, opting to ignore all of the sympathetic looks his fellow classmates gave him when they heard who he'd be under.

And he took it to himself to be every bit the protégé for Brooks. Who could blame him after all- he was a plebe in the eyes of most of the other agents, a glorified, travelling errand boy- no matter what he told his parents or the occasional beauty at the end of the bar. For the past week since arriving in New York, his life had had devolved into a few fundamental motions: always barreling through the man's quaint office door with the same broad smile, the same small black-sleeved portfolio tucked underneath his arm, even the same unflagging humility- never looking the veritable old lion of the agency's Counter-Terrorist division in the eye, and never, ever questioning him.

Bad move.

It was probably the first time he'd spoken more than one word around the man when his rosy predilections fizzled to fear. There was something decidedly in the realm of feral that dictated Brooks' moods, something that all the gossipmongers neglected to mention back at the academy. The only constant instilled in the man was his drive, his single-minded hellish focus**. **His instincts matched his immoveable scowl- piercing, innate, palpable and suffocating- and drawing the whole of such a marriage onto oneself had the young man question his resolve more than once. It wasn't that he hated his job; it allowed him to travel, to feel a part of something great. He honestly did like it, even if he was the secretary to a guy that was his boss on good days, and his devil on better ones.

There were just some times in the past week that things felt… off.

Something was going on behind the flimsy office blinds to his right, something that was so seismically uncharacteristic of his boss, that even the panicked call he had been enduring for the past five minutes didn't seem as unnerving. Brooks was yelling. Not like the sparse times Anthony had forgotten a file or didn't screen a call, no, this was a bellowing surge of noise that seemed to deepen in breadth as much as it was heightening in furor.

Though a near ear-piercing stream of southern drawl was blasting through the phone demanding most of his attention, he couldn't help but flicker his eyes every once a while back to that office door or to gapes in the blinds, trying to decipher anything being said. It didn't take much of a stretch to conclude why he was yelling that loudly. Even in his relatively miniscule time in the agency, even he could only think of one person that might have a chance of bringing that kind of voice out of Brooks.

"Look, Sheriff…" he paused for a moment, peering down to his messy handwriting. "Sheriff Teague. Agent Brooks is in a meeting, and I can assure you that this information will be in his hands once he's avail-"

"_I don't care what you think about it_!"

His words were cut short when a loud crash sounded from inside the nearby room. The door to Brooks' office burst open and the man himself emerged through its threshold looking more like a fuming, stalking bull with each lumbering stride. Edging closely behind him, a somewhat younger, dapper man emerged in a brisk dash, his pencil-thin tie flapping haplessly over his shoulder.

"They're _civilians_, Nathan!" the other man said sharply. "You can't have this sort of damning information out there. And you certainly can't have them interrogate this… this DeWitt guy before we do! That is unacceptable!"

Brooks immediately twisted on his heels, nearly causing the other man to plow right into his puffed out chest.

"They are civilians, Agent Knox," came his immediate, forceful reply, "who by the way practically broke this investigation wide open in Savannah. They have found more information on Rathborne in a week than we have found since 1997!"

The shorter man's pointed glare grew almost as quickly as the curdled, arrogant smirk rising up his cheeks. "…And whose fault is that?"

It wasn't a secret, not even to someone as new as him: Brooks had a history tracking what for years most of the in-the-fold individuals scattered throughout many other national and international agencies shrugged off as purely myth. Before he was head of Counter-Terrorism, before he was CIA, they told him Brooks was a Fed. There were whispers from the other old guard that he was different back then, that he actually exhibited some modicum of humanity, empathy. There used to be pictures that littered his cubicle- of who though, was anybody's guess.

They said he changed in '99. Legend had it that was when he took the case of seemingly random killings of elected officials taking place in the foothills of Virginia. He went there and disappeared for months, and when he came back, he was different. The last anyone saw of those pictures that used adorn his desk was in indistinguishable scraps, heaped in a lone trashcan like a wilting mound of leaves. The man grew dark, siphoned every bit of light in his life right into his body and never let it out again.

Some said that it was after a rough case that he let it spill, others decry that he had one too many to drink one night at a gathering outside of work. Whatever the genesis was, it didn't matter. In the end, everybody remembers his words straight down to the inflection his voice gave them. He said he found something big. He found something that made him abandon his family to track down. He found-

Actually, nobody knows. Well… that was the rumor anyway.

Since then, Brooks had devoted his professional career to casting a light on secret societies. And as the argument beside Anthony undoubtedly proved, the man was relentless even when there were no more shadows for them left to cast or hide in.

For the moment, the caller was forgotten as Anthony looked on in quieted wonder, watching Brooks jab his finger right between the smaller man's eyes. The phone jostled against his ear as he shook his head to clear his thoughts, intent on hearing more.

"I know what you're doing," Brooks growled at Knox. "And there's no way in hell I'm letting you take the reins on this investigation."

"They're acting on something, whoever the hell they are!" Knox hissed back, his eyes glimmering a sickeningly transparent apology to the many other inhabitants of the office. He leaned closer to Brooks, close enough that Anthony was for once quite grateful to be privy to his desk's location. "We have absolutely no more time to be catering to the whims of a dead Senator, following some half-cocked theories of an NYPD Detective and a playboy mystery writer. A mystery writer, Nathan! Burbury could have asked for the A-Team at this point and I would still be asking you to drop them from this case!"

"It's a good thing I'm leading this, then." Brooks said in a clipped voice. "They are assets."

"They're a waste of time!" the younger man said. "Think of what the press will do to Burbury, would you? They'll be camping in our lawns!"

"Then it would be right up your alley." Brooks made one last pointed jab with his finger, before turning and marching towards a long corridor leading to the floor's sole elevator.

"We need to_ act_, Nathan!" Still rooted in the same spot, Agent Knox yelled his final thoughts, apparently deciding to drop all pretenses of their little quarrel.

"And I somewhere to be, _Wesley_." Brooks said as he walked away, waving a small brown binder in the air.

It took a moment for Anthony to register that his boss was leaving, and a subsequent thump of nerves in his guts to remind him that there was a phone in his hand.

"Hold on, Sheriff." He said hurriedly, absently noting he had cut the sheriff off mid-sentence. "Hold on, he's out of his meeting."

Without a second thought, he tossed the phone down to his desktop and scrambled out of his chair towards the corridor.

"Excuse me, Agent Brooks?" Anthony's voice rose above the low, rolling chatter of others agents shuffling through the wide aisle. "There's a Sheriff Teague on the line. He says it's urgent."

"Who?" Brooks' replied. Neither his stride nor his focus on the elevator strayed at all.

"Teague, sir. He says he's the Sheriff of Chatham County."

"What did he want?" Brooks said with a sigh as he stepped up to the silvery elevator controls.

"He wanted to speak to you about a…" Anthony clumsily scrambled through his black portfolio for his notes, hoping he would find it before Brooks' finger touched the elevator button. "Ah… he said it was regarding Marcus DeWitt."

Brooks' finger stilled, hovering closely to the tiny arrow. "Wait, who are you?"

"Anthony Thatcher, sir. I'm your-"

"Secretary, yes." He paused expectantly.

"Well," he nervously began, bringing his notes from the call up to his chest. "He said something about a visitor asking about one Marcus DeWitt."

"Right, right," Brooks replied distractedly as he pressed the down arrow.

"He wouldn't tell me anything more, sir. He said that he promised he would contact you if any new leads came up."

Anthony was sure that little piece of information would surely get the stern agent to look his way, even if for just a moment. Yet, he waited- moments dragged by, the wispy white numbers above the elevator's dim metallic doors climbed higher and higher- and Brooks remained still and silent.

"Agent Brooks, I'm sorry, but I think this is important. The man sounded pretty shaken."

Still, no reply came.

He was sure that it was probably dumbest thought he'd had in years when the question came to him. But as he stood there, wondering if he was playing audience to the unraveling of the agency's most notoriously focused man, he had to ask.

"Sir?" he began. "Are you alright?"

Whatever spell his boss might have been under vanished when the doors beside him slowly slid apart. The elder agent calmly strode in, though he looked as though he was trying his damnedest not to scowl. He looked up, his eyes landing on Anthony immediately. That's when the sinking feeling hit the young man, that's when he realized his boss ignored him entirely.

"Look, I'm sorry, son. This will have to wait, just- just take care of it."

Anthony chewed his bottom lip as he watched the elevator doors slide to a close. He took his time making his way back to his desk, drinking in the bustle and warring conversations rising all around him. He wondered as he looked over the hundreds of suits identical to his own, had all of them went through this as well? Was there a point in each of their careers that they, too, felt about as useful as a hat in a monsoon? In those times, did they wish they were home as badly as he did right now?

"Secretary Thatcher…" he muttered as he unceremoniously plopped back down at his desk.

Taking one last scowl at the offending phone, he promptly slammed his finger down on the only blinking button, ending the call.

-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;

AN: Anthony Thatcher was originally going to appear along with Brooks in chapter 1. However, I really felt that having Brooks' introduction coinciding with another character underscored the feel and identity of Brooks' character from the onset. Brook certainly has the personality of someone who would have a lapdog following him around, but the no-nonsense kind of aura he had in chapter 1 simply didn't work with Thatcher on his heels. Plus, I really think having Thatcher's character introduced like he is in this chapter really fleshes out just how terse, combative, and driven to a fault Brooks is.

I would really love to hear your comments and theories on Brooks. So if you want to leave a little tidbit about him in a review, please feel free to! Thanks again for checking out this story and the next chapter will be up around 6 EST tomorrow!


	21. Devil May Care: Part I

**Chapter 21 – Devil May Care: Part 1**

"_Wait it out, Javier. If you stay cool and get through this, I promise we'll make sure that her dad does too," Montgomery said solemnly just before he opened the door._

"Guys?" Beckett's voice funneled through the apartment. "Where's Castle?"

Shaking his reverie away, Esposito looked around the living room for a moment, catching no signs of the writer. It had only been moments before that the duo had arrived and Castle didn't seem to wait a moment after a few hellos before jetting off with the entirety of their luggage in tow. Shrugging to himself, he opened up his mouth to reply when a sudden low thud sounded from a room down a single corridor adjoining the room.

"Castle, I swear if you are in the bedroom and-"

"Right here, Detective!" Castle called, emerging from the dim hall with an odd limp. As he passed him and Ryan he quickly motioned for them to follow. "Gentlemen…"

"What were you doing in there, bro?" Ryan whispered as they followed.

"Just making myself at home," he replied quietly and smiled, his eyes mischievously focused on the narrow archway leading to the kitchen.

Call it the hardened instinct of a cop accrued over the years, or it could have been the organic senses born in a man of detecting when another of his kind would soon incur the wrath of the fairer sex, but something was urging the young detective to not be around when she went in to that room.

"So where were we with the story?" Castle continued.

"The items on Vong." Ryan reminded.

"Ah yes, so the passport…"

"You weren't making that up? He was really carrying his dead brother's passport?" Esposito shook his head, probably looking as confused as he felt, as the group made their way to a coupling of couches and chairs in the middle of the open living room.

"Oh, yes. And that's not all." Castle said with a lopsided grin. "Do you want the honor of telling them, Beckett?"

"About?" Kate's voice came, accompanied by two faint snaps of bottle tops, funneling through the tiny archway separating them from the kitchen.

"Our mystery guest," Castle elaborated.

"Well, we went to his original residence outside of the Savannah- I think it was a restored plantation house." She replied.

"We were in for a tiny, little surprise when we made it there, too." The disbelief in her voice was unmistakable. "Apparently, Johnny Vong's brother was not dead after all."

"You're joking," Ryan recoiled and turned to Castle. "She's joking."

"And he properly greeted us with a full clip of bullets." Castle finished as he sat down at far end of an opposing couch.

"The guy you brought back was Vong's brother, huh? So the hitman wasn't there?" Montgomery supplied.

"Since I doubt that DeWitt would kill his brother, I have to say you're correct." In tandem, Castle slowly shook his head with a thinly disguised frown forming on his cheeks. It didn't take much of a stretch for Esposito to tell that little fact was hard to digest for him- how could the killer had not been there? From all that his boss and her shadow had said so far, he was expectant, almost giddily sure that the very moment they stepped into that sprawling old mansion that the author would find Beckett already slapping a pair of cuffs on their suspect. Instead, as crazy as it sounded-

"It was almost as if this killer knew to stay away," Beckett said from the other room. "From Marcus or us, I don't know. But I just can't shake the feeling we missed something there, something that could make his interrogation go a little smoother."

"Like what?" Ryan asked. "I mean you did catch a dead guy."

"An undead guy," Esposito corrected.

"Right." His partner nodded, quirking his brows. "So, you've got zombie DeWitt and a pretty credible hunch with that passport… what more could there be?"

"Depends on how you look at it," she explained, emerging from the kitchen holding two frosty bottles. "We found a lot of evidence on Vong that clearly pointed to some plan that was in the works between him and his brother. I'm positive that he was on his way to give that passport, the two-thousand dollars, and the ticket to Florence to his brother. But, the way DeWitt was waiting on us… most people don't welcome their siblings with guns. Something just doesn't add up."

"There were a few things he said to me," Castle added, looking over his shoulder to the general direction his partner's voice was coming from. "About leaving Vong alone, that his brother was long gone and won't help them anymore. Why would he even say something like that to somebody he thought was there to kill him?"

Beckett paused a moment at the edge of the room with a thoughtful frown.

"That's way too big of a slip to give to a hitman." She mused. "So, he knew his brother was on the run- not in prison. That implies that DeWitt and Vong were in contact somehow. So how do they connect? One is hiding, the other is running. Unless they discovered telepathy, someone had to give word to DeWitt."

"A middle-man?" Montgomery pondered.

"It wasn't the assistant D.A." Castle mused, holding up a single finger. "He released Vong out into the wild only because he was being told to-"

"By the Senator." Beckett interjected, tipping one of the bottles towards him. "He's definitely a part of it, but-"

"It couldn't have been him either that warned DeWitt." Castle proposed, wiggling a second finger. "He was still in hiding; and a call from him to a Savannah area code would have definitely sounded some alarms on that phone log."

"So who else on our ever-shortening list of breathing or non-incarcerated people might know about both DeWitt being alive and Johnny Vong running to him? Or this case, for that matter? Has there been any other name that has popped up?" she asked.

There it was, Esposito thought humbly. For so little time to prepare for how jarring that one simple question could be, he wasn't surprised at all to feel the hairs on his neck bristle in response. Oh, he had no doubt that Jim Beckett had nothing to do with this part of the case- but that didn't stop his thoughts from grinding all of the day's events away- straight back to watching his boss's father rush from the bullpen like the Three Furies were on his heels. How the hell did that agent expect for him to just sit there and not tell her? It was fucked- the whole game plan was colossally fucked in every regard. Still, he bit his lip in frustration. He let the swell of worry quell to a whimpering echo. He knew the reason she couldn't know, it had been his mantra since she and Castle tiredly shuffled through the door.

But that didn't stop the big brother part of him from kicking in. And that sure as hell didn't push away the idea of decking Agent Brooks the very moment he showed up. Forcing his gaze away from her, quickly picking up his beer and taking a long swig.

A quick heave of air threw his attention over to Castle, who had his mouth open, forming some reply. But whatever he was about to say seemed to fade in his throat. They were tired, weary, but neither seemed to be giving up. Both Beckett and Castle were almost scowling with concentration to muster some reply, some name.

"Maybe he'll cut us some slack and spill the beans," Beckett said with a sigh after a moment. "We've got something- or someone. Maybe both."

The hesitancy in Beckett's voice wasn't lost on him, and apparently neither from his partner.

"You don't know what you've got." Ryan ventured.

Beckett nodded her reply. "After Castle knocked him out, the cavalry arrived. We were shuttled out of the house along with DeWitt before I could even look at anything more than the vase Castle broke over the guy's head."

"Wait, let me get this straight," Esposito unceremoniously plopped his half-full bottle down onto a narrow side table, and waved a disbelieving thumb in Castle's direction. "Castle can actually throw? Not a granny shot, but a nice overhand toss?"

"Seriously?" Castle said, blinking owlishly. "That's all you got out of that story?"

"Of course," Beckett scoffed as she slipped by the couch while handing Castle a frosty bottle in an almost practiced motion. "He was throwing a jar, Esposito, not a boulder."

"Amphora." Castle piped in, quickly twisting the cap off and laying it on the arm of the couch to his side.

"Pardon?" Ryan said.

"It wasn't a jar, it was an _amphora_ jar." He explained.

"Apples and oranges," Esposito shrugged.

"Actually, it's more like wine and pine resin in this case." The author paused for a moment, watching the small layer of suds inside his bottle slosh around. "And I think that will tell us more about what DeWitt was doing in that house than any name off that call history log."

"Beckett, how hard did he hit his head?" Ryan twisted around to look up to her.

She looked over to him and gave a noncommittal shrug. "He's probably right."

"You too?"

"Let me put it this way," Castle leaned forward and tipped his bottle to the bemused detective. "Amphora jars were the primary mode of transporting goods in the Classical world- the premiere container of its age. There is actually a hill one-hundred feet high and 220,000 square feet in the southern edges of Rome made completely out of thousands of ancient, broken amphora shards."

"Is he serious?" Ryan whispered, likely to himself.

"Completely serious," Castle nodded. "Collectors the world over vie for them, after all, with the sheer quantity in existence out there, they are a little piece of history the affluent can afford. However…"

"I was waiting for that." Montgomery grumbled.

"What Castle is trying to say is, sure, he broke one over DeWitt's head, but that was the tip of the historic iceberg. Jars weren't what we saw in abundance inside one room," Beckett paused a moment, "which brings us to the second way of looking at things."

Beckett stopped her pacing, and a small smile appeared on her face. In two quick strides, she glided over to the large, puffy arm of the couch. As she unceremoniously plopped down, one arm extended directly over Castle's head and pointed straight towards something directly to the groups' right.

Following her direction, Esposito's eyes landed upon a small, nigh unbearably gaudy statue of a cherub perched directly in the center of a mantle jutting over the fireplace.

"Pudgy angels with bows and arrows?" Esposito said slowly.

"Statues, Esposito. Statues." Beckett said flatly, almost shaking her head with sympathy.

"Statues?" Montgomery repeated as he tilted his head. "Of what?"

"The question is more like, of whom." Castle peered over to the offending block of marble. "It was the Greek pantheon… I think."

"Maybe he was a collector," Ryan paused, and looked over to Esposito. "Well… before he died and became a zombie, I mean."

"Collectors keep statues- worshippers leave gifts." Castle said.

"Gifts?" Ryan balked. "What are we talking here? Gift certificates and knitted sweaters?"

"Think along the lines of a more pagan nature." Beckett made a small motion in the air.

"Booze and phallic symbols?"

"Phallic symb- Hold up, what? What kind of history books have you been reading, man?" Esposito recoiled back, giving a bewildered shake of his head to Ryan.

"Well you see, Jenny has this book that… well it shows some pretty salacious old Greek and Roman wall art and some of the craziest-"

Esposito gave him a small nudge, hoping to alert his partner. "Bro."

Ryan stopped and looked to each person in the room with a growing frown. Clearing his throat, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Moving on, then."

"Actually, you've got the booze part right," Castle acknowledged. "We followed DeWitt through a passage behind a dummy wall to a room that resembled more a shrine at the Acropolis than southern decor. There were literally dozens of clay bowls and goblets littered around the bases of every statue in this room."

"Libations. Somebody was leaving libations at the statues, huh." Montgomery concluded. "I think I see what you mean though. With that many offerings lying around, that means DeWitt probably wasn't alone by a long shot. And that tells me two things: there are quite a few people out there that knew his whereabouts, and if our killer knew enough about Johnny Vong to track him to Savannah and kill him, he had to have known about Johnny's brother too."

"I can safely say the killer has connections." Beckett replied. "There's no other explanation that could possibly justify how he knew to find Vong in Savannah considering he'd only been out of prison for just a few days."

"Right, but that little nugget also makes me think about your first question." The captain reached inside his jacket, and began shuffling around for something.

"About what?" Beckett glanced down to Castle, who quickly shrugged his shoulders.

"About a middle man." Montgomery replied. "You said that there has to be someone that connects DeWitt and Vong, right?"

"Right." Both Castle and Beckett answered.

For a few seconds, the elderly man merely grumbled and cursed as the muffled, crinkling sound of loose change and pens jostled around his hidden hand.

"Sir, who did-"

"What about Tanner?" Montgomery spoke suddenly, when a small brown notepad slipped into view held tightly in his hand.

Almost in a curious synchronicity, both Beckett's and Castle's eyes locked onto one another, darkening with a pensive shadow.

"I'd forgotten all about…"

"You don't think…"

"Brooks hasn't brought it up since we met him." Castle worried his lip for a moment, cocking his head to the side. "He would have looked for that name in the Mayor's circle of friends by now, right? He would have told us."

"About Tanner?" she inquired.

Castle merely nodded. "DeWitt said it too."

Beckett's lips fell to a frown. "He did?"

Castle nodded again. "When he blew apart the wall, yes, along with a few expletives."

"Who?" Ryan asked as he edged forward, glancing between the two of them; curiosity and bewilderment laced his voice.

"Tanner. That's the only name-drop the late Senator did." Montgomery explained to them as he pointed to the small notepad lying on the coffee table. "These are some notes I jotted down from the voicemail Burbury left to the mayor. Never mind those notes at the top, though. Was in the middle of making a grocery list..."

Esposito craned over the pad, his eyes immediately narrowing to a quoted phrase, heavily underlined and circled at the bottom of the page.

"Can't let them win… Find Tanner…" he read out. Looking up to the captain for some sort of explanation, his brows furrowed even further when the elderly man simply shook his head.

_Odd_, Esposito thought. Why would the Senator not give a full name?

"So it has to be somebody to the Mayor," he commented, "otherwise why give a last name only?"

"Could be a first name as well," Ryan mused.

Esposito looked over to him and nodded, making a motion with his hand. "Could be anything, right? Has Mister Hollywood hasn't said anything on it?"

Castle and Beckett shared a brief look.

"No." Both replied.

"So, you guys have no idea who it is?" Ryan asked.

Castle shook his head.

Getting a name from the walking dead typically led to two things- an arrest, or dirty laundry- mutually exclusive or not. He liked to pride himself in having a nose for that sort of thing. But this was vague; messages like this were the kind of stymied mess that often made him feel more like a cryptologist than a detective. But he'd seen worse, he'd constructed cases with less. The thought honestly made him wonder just how worn out Beckett and Castle really were.

It was almost humorous to see Castle, a man more outside of the box than anyone he had ever known or worked with, be wrangled to only a few theories. In so many occasions, where too quickly facts and hearsay piled and grew, amassing faster than protocol or all of their combined experiences as detectives would allow, the author would simply smile and the proceed to entice every imaginative fiber within them. He proved time and time again that the cerebral could go toe to toe with the tangible any day, that creativity could carve its own place in an orthodox profession. So, why not take a page from the man? Why not reason to himself on the nature of polar opposites.

As it were, such an application took little outward observation, after all, what better proof of the inherent alchemy in opposites than the two people sitting across from him. Before Castle came into the picture, Beckett was singularly focused, by-the-book in every minute step of a case. She was the champion of '_how's_', but Castle...

He came into their world with only one word in his vocabulary: _why_. The man could find a saga in the most insignificant of clues, tracing any thread his flights of fancy feverishly clutched on to as though each morsel of the story could very well be its nexus. That kind of unstoppable imagination meeting her insatiability for truth should have tipped the universe on its side. The classic unstoppable force colliding with an immovable object was going to happen right before him in all its celestial glory.

But something entirely unexpected happened. It worked. They worked. They complimented each other so perfectly that the young detective wasn't quite sure where one began and the other ended. It was living, fluid proof that that the black and white of each and every thing would be nothing without all of the grey that connected them. Complexity would be nothing without simplicity. Yin would be nothing without yang.

So why would this mystery be so different? Couldn't the whole thing boil down to a single, simple, unassuming explanation?

"So, the Senator left that voicemail explicitly to the Mayor, right?" Esposito mused as he looked over to the author.

"Yep, he called no one else that day." was his reply. "And that was the very first thing that he said in the message. Find Tanner."

Setting down his bottle, the young detective pointed to the circled name. "Castle, let me ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Not the best phrase to say to a cop, Castle." Ryan said with a subtle shake of his head.

"Anyway," Esposito said, giving a pointed look to his partner. "You're a mystery writer; you make a living through thinking of a dying man's last words."

"More or less," he nodded. "They can be tasty plot devices."

"So, to you, what is the most important thing a man that knows he's is going to be murdered would say?"

"Simply to name his killer." Castle took a moment; a long sigh left him, collapsing along with his shoulders before he continued.

"And you don't think that's the case with this call?" Ryan ventured. "I mean, he did say find Tanner after all. That tells me it's a person of significant to Burbury's death."

"Or maybe his life," Castle said, tapping a single finger to his chin.

"But this," his pointed finger danced from the notepad then motioned all around the room, "this is not simple, is it. Our victim had the capacity to call a very specific person, and to leave a very specific message to be relayed. And let me stress that- a message _to be relayed_. Although knowing he would soon be dead, he had the clarity to play one last card. This call was made with the sole intent of relaying his last wish. So, why the ambiguity? If the Senator had known who his soon-to-be assassin was, then every single fabric of my experience tells me that the very first thing he would say was the name of his killer."

"Yet, he didn't." The author's gaze carried up to his partner, who had perched upon the wide couch arm beside him as he replied. "A man with enough clarity to deliver one more message, with the foresight of knowing that he is going to die, does not leave a mere clue behind, he leaves the most incontrovertible of evidence."

"But he didn't," Esposito concluded.

"But he didn't." Castle echoed, a strange pitch of disbelief laced his voice. "He didn't call the 12th precinct to ensure that his message would meet mine and Kate's ears- he called a third party. Someone who I have no doubt is completely unrelated to this case, a bystander and nothing more. Instead of doing what the sole purpose of his message requires, to _reach us_, he drops an ambiguous moniker, presumably imparting it while fully aware that it could be construed as a whole host of things: a name, alias, surname, even code."

"Think about that for a moment," Castle tapped the bottom of his bottle on Beckett's knee, getting her full attention. "Burbury had just witnessed another man be murdered. What could motivate him to intentionally omit the identity of a killer not a stone's throw away from him with a gun? Why go through such theatrics to deliver a simple message when all he had to do was call the precinct? Think about his choices."

"Now," he paused again. "What does his choice in the calls he made say about-"

"Calls." Beckett suddenly cut him off.

"Pardon?" Castle said curiously.

"The calls. It's about the calls he made!" Beckett's eyes burst open, a wave of recognition seemingly banishing every last fragment of tension in her brows. In one swift motion, she dropped down to her knees by the table and yanked a pen from her pocket.

"Castle, get the call history log now." Beckett's forceful tone seemed to lift Castle right off the couch and hurtle the man headlong down the narrow hallway he appeared from only moments ago.

"On the flight back home, Brooks gave us a printout of Burbury's call history of the two weeks leading up to his death." She said as she furiously scribbled on the pad. "He said it was very important that we see it before we interrogate DeWitt. The only thing I expected to see on it were names and dates- something to gauge a better timeline for the events leading up to his death. The main thing that we found was Marvin Decker's name."

"The assistant D.A. we arrested?" Esposito leaned forward on his knees, squinting down to the notepad to try to catch a glimpse of what his boss was writing.

"The one and only," Beckett nodded quickly, not bothering to take her eyes off her notes. "Senator Burbury was silent for ten days, no calls, no e-mails, nothing, but then… boom."

"_Got it_!_ I_ _got it_!" Castle voice boomed through the spacious flat just moments before the pounding thud of his feet grew louder and louder as he dashed back into the room, holding a thick folder above his head as if it were a torch. Esposito sprung up from his place on the couch in shock when the dark haired man rushed mere inches by him in a blur before buckling to his knees and sliding across the carpet to a stop right by Beckett.

"Whatever decision he made had hit him, and hit him hard. But his first act is incredibly illogical." Beckett tore open the folder and rifled through page upon page until something immediately made her eyes widen. "He didn't go to the police, the feds, or anyone that could help him, no."

"Instead he goes back to his old routine, calling colleagues and constituents like nothing ever happened." Castle looked up to them with a widening, knowing smile.

"And right there," her finger shot to a single line near the bottom of the last page. "He calls Mr. Decker in the midst of all of this. Now here's where it gets really odd. With all his clarity and planning before, he suddenly lapses. He didn't cover his tracks with this one. He used a traceable line to call Decker…"

Her finger slid a few inches to the left, right under a series of numbers.

"…Burbury made this call from his own phone."

"You're kidding." Ryan scoffed softly. "That was the one link to his whereabouts. That's suicide."

Esposito nodded in agreement. If he didn't know any better, if someone were to tell him every bit of information on Senator Burbury's final moments, he would have laughed it off and immediately assumed that it was all the result of two completely different people. From the missing ten days in Burbury's life according to Beckett's earlier synopsis, to his fiery reemergence and death, this wasn't some guy that got blindsided by his killer. This was a death-in-waiting, a careful hand moving his pawns. This was a man premeditating his own demise.

"It isn't suicide if that's what you want to happen." Esposito said simply, watching the weight of his thoughts touch each other person in the room.

"But is that possible? Do you think he wanted himself to be found… _intentionally_?" Beckett asked slowly, stressfully.

"Well honestly, who knows what happened in those ten days he fell off the face of the Earth." Montgomery stood from the couch and casually paced over to the wide sliding glass doors that led to a rather expansive balcony. "All we know is that Paul Krashinko contacted him and things went south. Somebody could've shown up, blew the lid off of his bunker and that sealed the deal. So he knows his time is fading, doesn't bother hiding anymore and calls the assistant D.A. and the Mayor. He had to trust that his message would get to you two somehow."

"Or perhaps he didn't even trust the messenger he gave it to." Castle shrugged.

"The Mayor." Montgomery said bluntly. "But you said-"

"I'm saying that Senator Burbury wouldn't know who else was listening."

"So Senator Burbury calls the Mayor because he is the safest bet?" Montgomery crinkled his nose. "Castle, that puts holes in your entire assessment. If he was so worried about prying ears, if he wanted security, then that call would have been to the 12th precinct."

For a few moments, the author stared almost blankly at the tiny notepad. Then something quite alien to any type of expression he'd ever seen replace Castle's perpetually whimsical demeanor occurred. His jaw tightened noticeably, his lips pursed into some hybrid of a frown and pained solemnity, almost as if nothing less were giving his eyes the strength to lift to his partner.

"Castle… I know what you're thinking and we just can't go there, okay?" Kate stood slowly, offering her hand to him.

The man bright blue eyes simply latched onto Beckett and held there. In all the time Esposito had known him, he had never seen Castle stay so silent for so long when talking to her.

"Bigger fish to fry?" He spoke with a strange regretfulness. He took her hand, smiling softly as he stood.

"Much bigger," was her soft, yet trouble-filled response.

"What are we missing here?" Ryan quietly muttered to his right.

Looking over to his partner, Esposito shrugged sympathetically. Even now, even after seeing these sudden bouts of telepathy between his boss and her shadow for four years, he still found himself wanting to chuckle every time. If it weren't for the gravity of the conversation, he might have. But, judging by the deepening scowl on Beckett's face, it would've been a bad idea. Instead he opted to remain quiet, his own little M.O. on their intangible make-out sessions- they'd get around to explaining.

Well, maybe they would.

"Speaking of fishy things," Kate said after a moment, turning to Montgomery with a playful smirk. "I told you that they would find out about the investigation."

"These guys?" Montgomery jabbed his thumb towards him and Ryan, chuckling as he shook his head. "They were practically in tears with you two gone- you would've thought somebody came in and kicked a puppy in front of them. They weren't getting any work done, no smiling at all, just spent the days looking at yours and Castle's empty seats, harping on and on-"

"You should see Karpowski…" Esposito paused when Montgomery raised a lone brow in his direction. "…Sir."

"Alright, alright. I admit the cover for the Nikki Heat movie wasn't the greatest idea in the world, but there wasn't much time to come up with anything else." Montgomery divulged with a wave scotch-filled glass. "At least now you two will have a bit of help in this neck of the woods."

Help being a very subjective term, Esposito mused with a frown. He knew what was coming next. He had been waiting for this the whole conversation, the very moment he had to look Beckett and Castle in the eyes and spin a yarn.

"Seriously?" Castle gave an ever widening smile, glancing between him and Ryan for some sort of confirmation

Ever since they had walked through the door, the will to say something about Jim Beckett grew unflinchingly viral. It was a pain, prolonged and deep, delving straight to the nerves in his gut, a sensation better suited for buckshot wounds than an omission from a friend. He knew she was safer this way, that judging by the fading scrapes and bruises on her and her blue-eyed partner that their livelihoods were balanced precariously enough without unloading more weight on them. And it wasn't until that point, that inconspicuous blink of an eye when he took a moment to absorb just how haggard and beaten both of them looked. He could only imagine how deep it went beneath the surface, too.

"Oh yeah," Montgomery replied. "Thanks to Sherlock and Watson here channeling some of your inquisitiveness, Castle, they're going on a small '_vacation_'."

But, beyond all of the clutter making a veritable gauntlet out of Burbury's final days there was a deeper truth. And looking passed all of the eerie footprints, or the corruption Rathborne had thus far left in their wake, he was keen to remind himself that something larger was playing the mortar to this entire saga's foundation: the omega of Kate, the genesis of Detective Beckett; the goliath that for years had cast the shadow in her smile. Her mom.

"Somehow I don't get the feeling they're going to the Riviera…" Castle replied jokingly.

"Better than that," Montgomery guffawed; his dark brown eyes seemed to be on the verge of twinkling. "Oh, it's so much better than that."

He knew the moment Montgomery had told them that this case was tied with Coonan and Rathborne, that the cosmos had put the last pieces into play. This was the endgame. This was the point where either she would choose live with her ghosts or die by the hand of one. Painfully enough, he knew the very moment he had seen the smatterings of welts and their pallor, sleep-deprived complexions what her decision was to be. It was obvious. It was made over a decade ago.

Beckett had already begun her war dance. And soon, all Hell would rue ever blocking her path.

"You're not putting them on traffic duty, are you?" Castle piped in.

"And have nobody to yell at every day?" The Captain shook his head slowly. "No way. Until this is all said and done with, I'm showing my thanks for all of their persistence by making them work twice as much."

"Oh yeah?" Beckett chuckled, looking to the Captain thoroughly intrigued. "Do tell."

He wasn't blind. He didn't miss the gravely pointed looks the Captain had been giving him since they had arrived. Neither did the conflicted thoughts warring it out in his partner's expression go unnoticed to him, but he was sure in such beleaguered states that she and Castle were none the wiser. They were laughing like it was the best medicine for their fatigue, as though it were the last reprieve they would ever see.

"Well, they'll be going back to the 12th." Montgomery gave a hearty huff before downing the rest of his scotch, "They'll still be under Karpowski, and doing the same old, same old so we don't have any more eyebrows raised at two more detectives suddenly taking sabbaticals."

And maybe it was. For the many nights to come where he would wander into the memory of this moment, would he see them older- their smiles a little wider, their wrinkles a little more pronounced? Would they be then as they were now, hand in hand, streams of grey and grace flecking her hair, silvery whiskers and undying youth framing his? And sitting where they were like an unmoving eye- and their children, their grandchildren- whirling a storm of laughter and promise up around them, would he wonder…

Could this have happened if I had just said something?

"And for their downtime, they'll be-"

"Beckett." He cut off the Captain before he realized what he was doing. He gave a cursory glance to his right, to his partner's wide, nervous eyes. "There's something about it- about this case- that we need to tell you."

His eyes ticked over to the Captain for only a second, only long enough to see the sobered understanding in his face.

"Oh?" she curiously replied. He didn't miss the fact that she still hadn't let go of Castle's hand. Maybe she hadn't realized it yet, maybe she had. But that sight, more than any weighty guilt or perilous wanderings of the future, emboldened his resolve to certainty- Brooks' orders be damned. She wouldn't be going alone, not anymore, come hell or high water.

Not without Castle.

"I'm sorry that we didn't just come out and say this when you two got here, but you two looked so…" he began, furiously searching his mind to find the easiest way to say it. "I promise I won't rest, we won't rest."

"Spit it out, Esposito," Beckett teased as gave a playful gesture with her free hand.

Letting out one final deep sigh, he clenched his jaw and gave a slow, heavy nod.

"Beckett, it's about-"

"Detective Beckett," Whipping around, Esposito nearly jumped back in shock when standing no more than a few feet from him was Agent Brooks. "They will be working the Paul Krashinko murder and its connection to Mr. Burbury's."

And like that, all of the bravado inside his throat simply vanished.

"Seriously?" she said with a surprised lilt in her voice as she looked right at him and then to Ryan. "Sounds like a lovely vacation, boys."

The agent, who had yet to take his stern eyes off of Esposito, merely nodded.

"My apologies for my lateness," the grey haired man adjusted his tie with a crisp tug. "I'm afraid an unexpected meeting came up."

"As I always say, Agent Brooks," Castle replied, "late is really just a matter of perspective."

Esposito felt as though he were going to burst with frustration as he helplessly watched Beckett and Castle walk over the surly man and gave him a simple nod.

"I take it you're ready then." The agent paused as he motioned toward the door. "Very well. I will prep you for this interrogation along the way."

They made their way to the door. Castle, ever the gentleman, quickly opened up the door and motioned her through. But the very moment she reached the threshold, she turned on her heels and gave them all a rare, enigmatic smile.

"And boys?" Beckett called to them. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Yeah," Ryan called back, quickly snapping up to his feet.

"Whatever Castle unpacked in there," she motioned her thumb over to the unlit corridor to his right. "Take it to the couch, along with a nice blanket and pillow for him to sleep on, okay?"

"_How did you know_?" came Castle's distant voice.

"Sure thing!" Esposito replied as the door slowly drew shut. "We got your covered, boss…"

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AN: Thank you for the reviews and alerts! Next chapter will be up at the same time tomorrow!


	22. Devil May Care: Part II

**Chapter 22 – Devil May Care Part II**

"Come on, pick up… pick up…"

He'd hoped to stay cool and collected when they had gotten back to the precinct. Even while the Mayor practically chastised him as though he were some infantile gadfly right in the middle of the courthouse rotunda, he promptly tethered on a beatific smile, replete with scores of 'Yes sir's', and 'I'm sorry, sir's'. He quickly surmised through this whole browbeating that his rousing of a spectacle in a public place was all the portly man care to speak of, so in retrospect, it came as little surprise or regret to Sheriff Teague that one single 'Get out of my damned way, sir' had managed to slip.

The paper with Linda's findings was being choked tighter in his grasp, his aggravation had completely boiled over the very moment the line went dead moments before. Yet still, he pressed re-dial- again and again- not for him though. He had gone passed trying to maintain the illusion of calm some dozen unanswered calls before. Now it was for Linda, and only her.

"Pick up the damn phone…"

She was deep in the doldrums now. The normally spirited cadet was scared and shaking since he'd led her back through the precinct doors, and now she was pacing all around his office in a fitful silence. She would only look up when he hit re-dial, stopping still in her stride as though her legs turned to molasses- until the very moment the receiver would leave his ear again.

"Sheriff," Linda said quietly as she nervously looked through the blinds, giving her an unobstructed vantage of both the lobby and the parking lot. "He's not gonna answer."

Flicking his wrist, he took a cursory glance to his watch. One hour to go…

There had to be reasons for this chaos somewhere in this mess; for Vong to die on his turf, for the torrent of threats Linda haplessly sat through. Somewhere in this was the answer to his missing notes, to the doppelganger of Evan White, and a man that had faked his death for 20 years. No matter how much he tried to shake away his nerves, concentrate on getting his message back to Brooks, every part of him was convinced that not one of those reasons were coming along with their guest from D.C.

"I'm not stopping, Linda. Agent Brooks said to call if something came up, and I'm pretty damned sure this counts as 'up'. Two dead men don't just appear alive and breathing for no damned reason. I want answers and I want to know what the hell is keeping that agent away from his phone! I don't care who they're sending from-"

The whole rant was still playing out in his head when an all too rare clicking sound echoed through the line. Noises crackled to life somewhere far in the background, just as a voice, though oddly muffled, met his ear.

"Hello, Agent Brooks? This is Sheriff Teague from…" The Sheriff's voice died away, the sound of deep labored breaths filtered through the phone and into his ear. "Hello…?"

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"That was harder than I expected bro," Esposito said with a heavy sigh.

"You're telling me. Remind me to tell Castle that some duffel bags have a weight capacity," Ryan grunted out as he unceremoniously dropped the positively stuffed sack in the middle of the couch.

Esposito tiredly fell onto its far end, frowning as he looked over an uncovered, flimsy pillow draped over the armrest to his left.

"You know what I mean," he replied quietly.

"Yeah…" Ryan paused a moment, then quickly took residence on the other side of the couch. "Yeah, I know man."

For a few minutes, they remained in perfect silence. While he was aware that he'd be thankful for this piece of respite days from now, he was beyond antsy. Seeing Beckett and Castle alive and in one piece, while certainly was incredibly relieving, did little to assuage the little voice inside his head that kept repeating the same words over and over: what if. It was a strange paradox, he mused- all at once feeling as though he was wasting time, yet completely unprepared on how to properly use it. They had nothing to start on, no semblance of clues or a starting point to find Jim Beckett. Hell, for that matter, what were they even going to ask if they found him?

"What do we do now?" Ryan suddenly asked.

"We keep our promise," Esposito said with a simple shrug. "We find her dad."

"But… how?" Ryan began. "I mean, I don't know about you, but Beckett hasn't really burned the hours away talking with me about her family in the break room."

Esposito quickly picked up the notepad, flipped a few pages over and promptly ripped out a single sheet. His partner was right in every way- Beckett was a guarded soul. And if he were honest, she had every right to be. Sure, there were times over the years that glimpses of her life outside of the precinct slipped rather innocuously in and out of conversation, but that's all they were: peeks. It was almost painful to admit as long as he'd known her, as long as all of them had seen each other off duty, but he was pretty sure that most of what he knew about her family came from the case files of Johanna Beckett.

"Well," he began, worrying his lip. "Honestly bro, I don't know. I've went through a million different reasons in my head with why he came to precinct- mentioned Burbury and all that- but none of them make sense."

It was a lie; a straight up, dyed-in-the-wool load of misdirection. But, how could he even try to say otherwise? Spending year after year putting people behind bars, many of whom who looked like they couldn't even harm a fly, had the tendency to emblazon a very simple law of universe into one's mind: it could be anybody. That kind of ineludible truth certainly played the devil's advocate to many of the scenarios in his head, but that didn't mean he had to vocalize them.

"Check his house first," Montgomery offered as he emerged from the nearby kitchen. "If he's not there, head to the precinct and check his financials."

"You think he'll be there?" Ryan stood up and pulled out his phone. He hit a single button and brought the phone to his cheek as he quickly produced a tiny notepad from his jacket pocket.

This was it, Esposito thought worriedly. This was where either they would prove their loyalty or be destroyed by it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there had been a notion that this was just going to be a simple jaunt across the city, nothing more than a case of miscommunication tangling with an overactive imagination. Jim Beckett would be there, he assured himself; the guilty conscience was just the utter lack of sleep talking.

It wasn't a missing person's case. _It wasn't a case._

Yet, the very moment he saw his partner's quieted stare at some unknown point near his feet, an all too familiar sensation flitted through his nerves. It was the same focus that slipped over him like an intangible shield whenever he crossed into a crime scene or felt a lead blooming on the horizon. It was protocol, the meat and bones of his profession. And nothing, absolutely nothing, could say more on the gravity of how this was going to be approached.

"So we're treating this-" He began, only to pause. Vocalizing that Beckett's father could be a witness… or worse… was heavy; way too damned heavy for him anyway.

"Right now, it's just a check-up," Montgomery replied as he looked over the young Irishman on the phone.

"_Hey- yeah, I need an address_."

"And after that?" Esposito said as he stood. If there is an 'after that', he mused.

"_Jim Beckett_. _Yeah_, _B-E-C-K_…"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, Javier," It was obvious the Captain was trying to stay as confident as normal. He was even throwing on a supportive smile.

"_Alright- yep, got it. Thanks_."

Esposito turned to his partner, who immediately gave a nod of confirmation as he put away his phone. Ryan held up his notepad with a curious expression on his face. It was almost as if he were waiting for something- or someone- to take it from him, to rip it to shreds and prevent the trip to their next destination from ever happening. And honestly, the thought was more tempting than he cared to admit.

But this was protocol, wasn't it.

"We'll get through this," Montgomery dark eyes seemed to soften for the briefest of moments. "I've got faith in you two."

No sooner had the words left the elderly man's mouth, both he and Ryan warily walked by the Captain, each not taking his their eyes from the brave face he was wearing. The young detective slowly slipped on his jacket, and with one more look around the apartment, he followed his partner out the door.

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He had no idea where they were by now.

The vehicle had long since sped by the last patches of cityscape some time ago. Now there was nothing but countryside, sparsely dotted buildings and silos. It was far removed, out of the reach of any prying eyes, and completely predictable if he might say so. Granted, he had used this imagery, this exact path of story progression many times before, but he had honestly hoped that when it came down to actually living it out, that the Feds would be a little more creative- a little more subversive. Oh, and a little more exciting too.

"Detective Beckett, Mr. Castle, I expect you have many questions…"

Perhaps this was the ace of their proverbial sleeve, however. Obviously, they couldn't exactly steal them away to a secret destination with bags over their heads- they weren't the suspect after all. So it seemed as though Brooks had taken it upon himself to verbally lull them into a forgetful haze with a pep talk. It was working magnificently, if he were honest. The elderly agent had begun his lecture with simple rules- do this, don't touch that _Mr. Castle_. And somewhere it seemed as though Brooks had had some relapse, perhaps back to his days as a rookie, harping on and on about protocol and preparation. Preparation, he mentally scoffed, how can anybody prepare for interrogating a dead man? Beyond the why's and how's of Johnny Vong's death and their co-connection to Rathborne, how could they possibly get anything out of a guy that has managed to convince the world he was dead for 20 years?

To his right, Beckett looked to be mimicking his wandering state: braced by a single curled arm against her window, it seemed more that she was burrowing into the confines of a light slumber than being carried to another potential door to the tragedies of her past. She hadn't said a word since they had climbed into the car, opting to her current position the entire time. She looked utterly relaxed, more so than he could ever fathom to be if he were her. And though every fiber in his body was pushing a whole slew of comforting words and questions up his throat, he dared not break her focus, he didn't want to complicate whatever spell she was forcing herself under for the sake of his own worries.

Looking back on the strange phone call that began all of this, there was little objection left in his mind that a reckoning was coming, be it at the hands of Rathborne or from Beckett herself. They had yet to speak of where this was heading, of her mother's life or death. But, it didn't take the wide, ever searching eyes of a novelist to see that unspoken destination was what was at stake. It wasn't a stretch by any means to appreciate the fragility of it all, to think that they might find any measure of a hopeful outcome. It was all there, splayed out to the naked eye right before him. The fires and torrents of that emotional microcosm were a mere hair's breadth underneath the dark brown eyes of his partner, no matter how much she wanted it to be veiled. The weight, the shear lumbering burden bore an all too striking resemblance to Coonan, to how so closely they had come to a resolution, to redemption, only to have it mercilessly jerked away.

That sort of twist would have left most a quivering mess, but not her. What burgeoning feelings he had aside, the indomitableness of the spirit she showed mere hours after killing Dick Coonan simply went beyond the constraints of words or phrases. Poetics, flighty exaltations hitherto unventured heights of his own feelings simply felt inadequate, unflaggingly mundane. She became deeper, more sacred things to him every day beyond that. For the first time in his life, the sheer, encompassing beauty of another person left him speechless. Somewhere in her was an insatiable hope, untiring and eternal; enticing and terrifying, coupling in indefinable union. And though her entire world burned to cinder in the span of the squeeze of a trigger, she rose from that immutable fire like a vengeful phoenix.

And if fate were kind, today would be the day her spirit burned even brighter.

But this wasn't going to be easy, for her or him. For all her unparalleled training and experience, for all of his unchained imagination and wit, whatever was to transpire in the coming hours would not be relented easily. He silently prayed that Beckett had a better game plan than some of the scenarios he had currently floating around in his mind. After all, asking a dead man what hole had he been hiding in was just bad form- even for Richard Castle. It was to be a war, he mused. Prepared or not.

"You will have two hours with Mr. DeWitt," Brooks emphasized, holding up two rigid fingers right in front of the rearview mirror. "Afterwards-"

"Two hours?" The surprise in his reply seemed to jostle Beckett out of her thoughts. She twisted sharply in her seat, facing him with a frown that could only be taken as a look of disbelief.

"But sir," she leaned forward, grabbing both the driver's and passenger's headrest and seemed to be wedging herself to the front as far as her seatbelt would allow. "You said we had him to ourselves for as long as it takes."

The agent calmly turned in his seat, setting his eyes directly on hers.

"And how long _will_ it take, Detective?"

There was no mistaking the duality of Brooks' simple inquiry. He wanted more than just answers about Rathborne; he was fishing for any sign from either of them cracking. Under any other circumstance, he would have been justifiably affronted. But something in the agent's solemn stare only reinforced the idea that this was no ordinary man they were about to be set upon.

"On my way here, I was informed that Mr. DeWitt is not cooperating with any line of questioning," Brooks paused for a moment. "Regretfully, I don't know his background. So, once you enter that interrogation room, I cannot help you in the slightest degree. You two will be on your own, so to speak. I know of your closure rates, of both of your abilities to break the hardest of criminals. However, between you and me, what you are about to walk into is nothing of that element. He could be a rat, but he could also be a snake."

Beckett was silent for what seemed like minutes. She kept her lips tightly together, drawing them in along with the deepening furrow of her brows as she turned her gaze directly to him. Something flickered in her eyes then, an implacable tenderness he hoped his own were returning in kind. If the surly Fed could see what he was seeing, there would be little doubt in his mind of how they would fare: there was no weakness in her expression, no trace of timidity or fear- only resolve, promise.

"We will end this, sir," was her simple, sudden reply.

_Trust_.

Whatever bravado Beckett had unknowingly melded into her voice seemed to satisfy the grey haired man.

"As I was going to say, you will have two hours," the elderly man turned to face the road again. "After that, all that I ask is that if it looks as though he will not break, I want you two to take a time out to gather yourselves and get a better game plan."

"Then we can try again." Castle supplied before taking a heavy breath as he watched Beckett move back to her seat. While she still looked somewhat agitated, she seemed to begrudgingly accept the terms.

"Then you can try again," Brooks gave a single nod of confirmation. "Since my assistant is going fashionably late, you will have to wait until that break until the ledger that you requested will be in your hands."

"Understood, sir," Beckett firmly replied after a moment.

The vehicle slowed before turning into the parking lot of what looked like nothing more than a run-down, one-storied office building. A familiar, identical SUV was already parked right by its front.

"Here we are." Brooks promptly opened his door and vanished from his sight.

Beckett's hand froze on her door handle. Her eyes lifted to his, stilling and searching so fervently he refused to blink. Her focus flamed and simmered around the honeyed flecks of her iris, but there was a current under there, churning deeper and deeper the longer it held him.

Then he felt a small hand cover his, fingers digging and curling until their pads clenched softly in the burrows of his palm. He dared not look down, or anywhere but her.

"Shall we?" she said.

This was exactly where he was supposed to be.

"We shall."

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AN: Next chapter will be up tomorrow, if I can stop staring at the season 5 poster long enough, that is ;)


	23. Devil May Care: Part III

**Chapter 23 – Devil May Care: Part III**

Kevin Ryan's knuckles rapped twice against the door.

"Mr. Beckett?" He repeated after a moment of silence and peered through a particular Corinthian etching clambering its way across focal point of a frosted glass window once more. Unable to discern any shapes in the blurry unlit hall ahead, he knocked again with a hint of more force. "We- we work with your daughter, sir- we need to talk to you."

Esposito calmly waited a few paces behind his partner, trying his best to keep a warm smile on his face just in case the door opened this time.

"Hello, Mr. Beckett?" Raising his voice, Ryan called out again. "Jim! Jim Beckett?"

But no reply came. Not a whisper of sound funneled its way through the door in the fifteen minutes since they had arrived. It should have been expected, Esposito mused with a subtle shake of his head. The very moment Papa Beckett dashed away into the 12th Precinct elevator, he should have been right behind him- right in his face until he sang. Maybe then, he and Ryan would be elsewhere, maybe helping out Beckett and her shadow in any way, shape or form. Anything would be better than this, this manhunt. Another pop and drop- anything. Any lead would be better. Anything would have been better than lying to Beckett to her face.

"I'm going to go on ahead and assume he's not here." Ryan said glancing back. "It's been what…"

"Two days since he was at the precinct." Esposito supplied.

"Plenty of leeway…" Ryan paused for a moment; undoubtedly to let the implication of those words sink in a little as he gazed around the porch. "Any ideas?"

"A few," Esposito muttered glumly. Looking to his left he noted the faint, pallor imprint of where a vehicle normally parked edged not far from a wide double-capacity garage connected to the house. Plants hanging in wide spherical pots from either side of porch's wooden archway were beginning languish, browning on the tips of their leaves with the ample signs of recent neglect. All of it pointed to one very unsettling sign, one that he was more than happy to not vocalize for the time being. At the very least, he contemplated, not until all other avenues had been explored.

"I hate to say this bro," he nodded to the door, "but we're pretty much done here unless we call up Beckett and ask her."

"And we can't do that," Ryan muttered through a heavy sigh.

"Can't do that…" He echoed and gave a solemn nod. Tapping Ryan on his shoulder, he gave a motion back to their car and trotted down the steps.

"You said it's been two days since he came to find Kate, yeah?" The Irishman suddenly spoke, repeating the same question. "And how many days has it been since Senator Burbury's murder?"

Wracking his brain as he stopped and turned to his partner, his reply was immediate. "A week on the dot. Seven days."

"And you said that after he asked where Kate was, he just blurted out something about Burbury?"

"Yeah," Esposito replied, unable to shy the hesitancy from his voice. Even through the many times he had so far replayed that odd twist in that conversation, if he were honest, he still wasn't quite sure what had been explicitly divulged. "He just said he saw it in the paper, that a Senator had been shot."

"You're sure?"

Esposito raised a single brow. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"And then what happened?" His partner asked

Esposito looked at him oddly for a moment. They had been over this story well over a dozen times just in the past day.

"I told him I'd go find out who was working the Burbury case, and then Papa Beckett seemed to get…" Esposito paused and shook his head hoping it would dislodge the best descriptor from his tongue. For the past 48 hours, he had tried to remember the words that accompanied the elderly man's flight, but all he could recall was feeling; raw, unflinching feeling.

"I don't know bro. Weird- nervous, emotional."

"Come on man, you're a Detective." There was a pregnant pause as the young Irishman's eyes set directly on his. "What were you thinking the moment he left?"

"That I should stop him." Esposito replied as he forced himself to look away, entirely too conscious of the pang of guilt that his Detective side was even entering the picture on this one. "I thought that he knew something about the Senator's death."

"So… did he?" Ryan took a few paces towards the car and stopped again. He turned back, hesitant and jilted. His eyes, growing pensive and distant, teetered back to the house their boss likely grew up in. "Did he know?"

"In what capacity?" Esposito replied coolly. "What are we talking about here, Kevin?"

The young Irishman's head dipped a little as he ran a hand roughly through his hair.

"I'm sorry, man. But you know we have to cover this. We have to." The cheerfulness that seldom left Ryan's features vanished away, corroding and compressing his youthful dimples into a pained grimace. "What was Papa Beckett doing those first five days? You said he was emotional- kind of unhinged, right?"

_Ah, in that capacity._ There was no mistaking where this pendulant line of questioning was going now.

Esposito knew that rhetoric almost as well as the look his partner always ushered it into the world with. The words really didn't matter when they arrived; smoke and mirrors were all they were, there to keep distracted eyes away from the con happening right before them. It was an innocuous shift any lawyer on Earth would kill for: a genuine look of naiveté, lips pursing into a languishing frown, brows crinkling and mashing down so much it almost hid the near absurd glow of concentration that never failed to prove fruitless. It was a visage of total haplessness, of juvenility. It was one of Ryan's greatest weapons.

Where Castle was concerned, the man was boyish to the core. He could act the part to a tee; but Ryan, he looked it, radiated it. That kind of genetic hodgepodge spelled hell for most cops. The role of resident rag doll was kind of inevitable with a face like that, no matter if it came from the hands of co-workers or perps. But somehow, it never was that way for the wiry Irishman. He worked it.

It didn't matter if it was happening with a suspect or while chatting around the Espresso Machine, Ryan would fall into a muted lull as quickly as Castle could slip on a disarming smile. Watching, smiling when prompted, nodding along but seemingly engrossed in some other world inside his head. Most of the folks around the Precinct probably thought it was Ryan's natural state, but he knew better by now. It only happened when the young man was troubled about something- a case or a clue- but dared not voice it yet.

A tentative question always heralded its onset, something benign and auspiciously mundane. But all the while behind his curious eyes, pieces were piling together, latching and sliding into places he intermittently divulged. It was a mental game of follow the leader, with his partner so deftly maneuvering whoever he was questioning to the very source of his troubles. It was so understated that suspects often never knew until it was far too late. He was a walking, smiling case of staggering perception mixed with lost-in-the-crowd subtlety; great for any person- invaluable for a cop.

Unsettling for where he was leading them now.

"He didn't kill Burbury, bro."

"Yeah," Ryan shook his head vehemently for a moment. "I know. That's not what I'm getting at. Think about the way he was acting to you. Doesn't that sound familiar?"

"Yeah?" Esposito replied hesitantly. "The way he left, well, if I hadn't known any better I would have guessed he was relative of Burbury looking for closure, or justice- something."

"Well, what if he was?" Ryan said in a strange tone.

"Huh?" Esposito immediately shook his head. "Nah. Too thin. We'd know it if Beckett was related to a U.S. Senator, bro. And if we didn't, Castle _would_. The man lives and breathes her. And we'd know it by proxy considering how much he'd be teasing her about it."

"Right, right. So, not blood related," Ryan quickly waved the thought off. "I mean what if… what if Burbury was a friend of the family?"

"I've never heard Beckett even mention this cat before." Esposito retorted a little more defensively than he intended. He gave a small, apologetic nod before continuing.

"I mean seriously, bro," he gave a short pause as he gestured around the property. "That kind of thing would at least come up in conversation once or twice."

"Are you sure? We spend every day with her, in and out of the Precinct. She's going to be a bridesmaid at mine and Jenny's wedding. We've known her for years, Javier, and we had to call H.R. for her Dad's address." Ryan said bluntly.

Esposito hung his head and sighed. He was right.

"Point taken." He chewed his lip for a moment and looked back over to his partner. "So, what are you thinking?"

"Well, what if she didn't know that she knew him?" Ryan paused. He walked back up the tiny steps of the porch and stopped a few paces in front of the door. "What if she was too young to remember him at all?"

"Kevin-"

"You said he was crying, man." Ryan interjected. "Now think about that. He's never shown up at the Precinct before, so this wasn't a quick 'dropping by while I'm in the neighborhood' visit to his Daughter. So why did he come? Why would he want to talk to Kate about Senator Burbury?"

He extended a single finger back to the front door.

"Why would he want to know if she is working his case?"

And there was his trouble, the proverbial carrot dangling so tauntingly just out of his partner's reach. If these were normal times, he would simply remain objective, completely indifferent as any cop would about the worry a father sometimes showed at the Precinct. It was their job to ease a parent's worries, not divine its catalyst. But this was far from ordinary, far from any realm of comfortability and experience he carried.

"So where is the connection?" Esposito mused with as much conviction as he could muster. "If it isn't Kate…"

His voice caught in his throat as a single word literally exploded inside his mind. It was as though those final frantic moments of his brief meeting with Beckett's father had chosen serendipity over fortuity- and it came with a fury. Images and sounds roared back into the unflinching clarity of his consciousness, and with a sudden wave of nerves clutching at his gut, he closed his eyes.

"_I saw it in the paper… I saw that Senator Burbury died. I didn't make the connection until this morning."_ He recalled the elderly man saying through pleading, tear-stained eyes.

"Connection." He muttered to himself, ignoring the seemingly distorted and garbled voice of his partner.

This was far too paradoxical; the sudden appearance of a man he'd only heard about was jarring enough. But to throw in the jittery query of his Daughter working one particular case over the hundreds upon hundreds she had taken before was far too glaring, far too thinly veiled to placate his instinct. It was only then, did he remember some of the last words, every single dire-laden syllable, that left Jim Beckett's mouth just before he bolted for the elevator:

_"I'm worried about my daughter, Detective. She is as stubborn as I am, she will want to follow it to the very end if it came to it."_

Esposito shot open his eyes, uncaring about the look of shock that crossed his partner's face as he grabbed him by the arm and practically dragged him to the car.

"Call the Captain; we need his financials right now." All at once, he stabbed the key into the squad car's ignition and twisted it as his other hand was already occupied with jerking the gear shift down. "And tell him we need a search warrant for this place."

"A warrant?" Ryan gawked disbelievingly, his head swiveling erratically out to the blur of houses zipping by and back to him, but was already tilting to his side to pull out his cell phone.

"Wait, why are we leaving then?" Ryan turned in his seat and began motioning frantically back to the familial house rapidly shrinking in the distance.

"We're going to see Lanie."

"Huh?" Ryan plopped unceremoniously back into his seat, unabashedly staring back at him with utter confusion etched all over his face. "Why are we going to see her?"

"Dick Coonan," Esposito replied absently as he lurched the car violently to the left and sped by a string of vehicles lazily crawling up the express ramp leading back towards the city.

"We need his autopsy records or something?"

"No, we need the names of his victims." He shouted over the ever growing volume of honking horns they tore passed.

"All of them?"

"Papa Beckett said he knew about a connection right before he left." Esposito said quickly. "A connection of what, I don't know- but there's only one case in the world I can think of that he might know just as much of as Kate does. There's just one case that any father in his position would want to act on before their child does."

"Act on?" Ryan blanched. "He'll act on what, Javier?"

Esposito took his eyes off the road only for a moment. He looked over to his partner. It only took a second for the first spark or recognition to show on his face. By the time the detective looked back to the road, his partner was already furiously tapping on his phone and shoving it up against his ear, muttering one phrase over and over again.

"Oh hell…"

-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;

It must have been around the fifteenth attempt to call Brooks that he could see that Linda could no longer keep her emotions in check. The third ring of the dial-tone drummed in his ears as he watched her eyes land on the scribbled name of Evan White she had done not hours before. By the fifth ring, tears were pouring down her face, by the eighth and final one, the girl was trembling. As he placed the phone down once more, he helplessly looked on as she fled from the room.

That was a dozen or so calls ago and still she hadn't reemerged.

He had fifteen minutes, and by God, he didn't want to waste another second of it trying to contact a spook. Staring down at the offending phone in his hand, a growl replete with curses shot from Sheriff Teague's lips as he slammed it down onto his desk.

"Linda!" he shouted as he stood and surveyed the chaos of papers now scattered over his desk.

No voice, no sound of steps greeted his call.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the phone one more time and tapped in one more number. No more than a few seconds passed before he heard the line come to life.

"Honey? Yeah… Uh-huh, I'm still at work. Oh, you know, same old same old."

With his free hand, he slid the paper with Evan White and Marcus DeWitt's information directly in front of him.

"Listen, could you do me a favor?"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-**

**AN: **The last scene of this chapter, like the Eric Engelmann one a few chapters ago, was a part of the original outline but was snipped. In this one's case, I thought it to be a bit redundant considering all you see Teague doing the prior chapter is keeping his ear glued to a phone. However, there is a continuity issue that arises later that I simply overlooked that requires it to be here.


	24. Devil May Care: Part IV

**Chapter 24- Devil May Care: Part IV**

"Quickly, quickly, follow me… and please, Mr. Castle, don't touch anything," Brooks said as he grasped a rusty looking door handle, looking back with a pointedly stern expression that left little doubt that he and Beckett were getting the tour first. The very moment Brooks pulled open the large steel door, a low clipped voice somewhere inside rang out.

"He isn't talking, Sir."

Before Castle could even blanch from the screech of the door or the sudden unexpected voice, a pungent smell of fresh paint seeped through an initial blast of frigid air, oppressing to every sense to the point that his eyes burned and threatened to balm with tears. The evening sun's light washed over the gloomed threshold, vanishing all of the blackness before the grey-haired agent until its rays were impeded any further by a giant of man stepping through to meet them.

"We've had him in the room for two hours now," the goliath spoke again; his plangent, seemingly bottomless voice filled with gruff, teetering precariously close to the thrum of a growl. Bending his head awkwardly to the side to avoid the top of the door, he ducked through and stopped inches from Brooks. Castle had to forcibly veer his eyes from the man to keep himself from gawking in terror. It was obvious that whoever he was had to be the resident muscle, and most definitely the go-to intimidator. He was an ogre, Castle mused thoughtfully, an ogre that had traveled to here through time and space in a tailored suit.

"He's only opened his mouth to cough a few times." The ogre's beady eyes never strayed to either Castle or Beckett.

"Hence why," Brooks motioned first to a very determined looking Beckett, and then to Castle, "they are going to have the first crack at him."

"Knox wants you to wait." The ogre said tersely. "He's the boss-"

Whoever this Knox fellow was, Castle hadn't the slightest idea. However, the utterance of that name alone certainly made him aware that Brooks knew, and judging by the uncharacteristic scoff coupled with a testing scowl coming from the old agent, this Knox fellow was probably not the most highly regarded guy.

"-of nothing, and especially not this investigation!" Brooks interrupted with a snarl. "What does he want me to wait for? Him? Like hell I will!"

"Lead the way, Oliver." Brooks said flatly, curtly gesturing to the door.

The ogre called Oliver didn't budge.

"That's a goddamned order, Agent." Brooks said in a tight, cold growl. "Mr. Castle, Detective Beckett. Get your butts in there and prove me right. I'll have Burbury's ledger for you in Observation when you take a break."

Shrugging to Beckett, Castle thought it best to give the ogre a small apologetic smile and do what Brooks said. After all, as angry as Brooks looked, he was beginning to favor the elderly man if it went to fisticuffs with the ogre. Intent on stepping inside to let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior, Castle managed to lift his right foot forward before a hulking, massive arm clouded all of his vision, quickly followed by the sensation of his shoulder being caught in a bear trap.

"Apples! Apples!" His instinctive cry for mercy seemed to fall on deaf ears, for he soon felt himself being pulled into an unforgiving wall of muscle and a rather pleasant feeling silk shirt.

"This isn't a good idea, boss," grumbled the ogre.

Castle was thankful that he was shielded by Oliver's massive form from the eyes of his partner, because he was pretty sure his immediate reflex to wiggle as violently as possible wasn't exactly the manliest thing he'd ever done in front of her.

"Hands off my partner, Tiny," he somehow heard Beckett's tired command through the log-sized arm cuddling with his skull. He would have chuckled, said a thank you and smiled to her, but a more pressing part of his thoughts chose to coach him on proper breathing. So Beckett would have to manage with a squeak- in gratitude of course, that he gave for a reply. She would understand.

"You heard the lady, Agent." Brooks drawled.

Castle felt the around his head lessen slight, but it seemed to tighten around his back.

"But, sir-"

"No, Oliver. I am the lead investigator here, and if Knox has a problem with that, then he will answer to me. Got it?" Brooks said; exasperation clear in his tone. "And if you feel that badly about it, just give Thatcher a hard time whenever the hell he decides to show up, alright?"

In the span of one more ragged breath, Castle felt a rush of cool air fill his lungs and sweep over his face. The giant hand still clamped over his shoulder twisted sharply and he was suddenly faced with his rather bemused looking partner.

"Now then, where were we?" Brooks said, and even through his issued shades, Castle to practically feel the elderly man's gaze burning a hole through Agent Oliver. "This way, please."

"Alright there, Castle?" she said as Brooks wordlessly passed between them and through the doors.

Only a moment later, he was unceremoniously shoved out of arm's length from his captor. Though as much as he wanted to fire a salvo of guilt-worthy glares to Oliver, he dared not crane a wounded look up to the ogre as it disappeared back into the building right on the heels of its boss. Instead he looked to his partner.

"Um, yeah?" He said while slowly, carefully, rolling his head around. "What do you think that was all about?"

"It sounds like someone is trying to get their hands on the rug under Brooks' feet."

"Knox," Castle muttered, recalling the name the ogre said. "A subordinate, you think?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure who is leading this anymore, Castle," she replied as her eyes glanced to the open door for a scant second. "As odd as it is that Brooks didn't even know we were in Savannah, someone obviously knew we were there thanks to-"

"-the chauffeur that was waiting for us at the airport with that bad sign, yeah…" Castle nodded with a frown, recalling the most recent time Beckett had come a few heartbeats away from choking the life out of him. "Think it was this Knox guy? I bet it was him."

Beckett quirked a single brow. "That would be impossible to know or even guess at this point, Sherlock. But you know, there's a guy in there that we can go and ask and- hey Castle, fix that."

"Huh?"

He caught her eyes measuring him up, dotting their way over his undoubtedly rumpled suit. He dropped his gaze down to find whatever the problem was, but in one fluid step, she was in front of him, her soft brown eyes ever rolling and her hands snaking up his tie.

"Oh, I could have-"

Any more of his words were promptly squeezed down to a gasp when the loop of his tie not so accidently yanked sharply around his throat. Chewing her lip, Beckett gave him one more glance over and gingerly patted down his collar.

"There. All better. Now, are you done licking your wounds or do I need to piggy-back to the interrogation?"

"Okay first the ogre wounds my suit and now you wound my pride? What's with all of the abuse?"

"Isn't it obvious, Rick? I think we need to find you a new safe word." Beckett looked over her shoulder with a curious smile before waltzing into the building.

For a moment, Castle stood dumbstruck as he watched her retreating silhouette vanish through the threshold. Though hundreds of rather decadent and debauched scenarios for said proffered opinion came to mind, Castle chose to cast the fleeting, curiously exaggerated sway of his partner's hips a dawning smile.

"Why Detective Beckett, I thought you'd never ask."

Chancing a subtle tug on the knot of his tie, he cleared his throat and turned to the door.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

They called it the 'Devil Day Care', a perfect ode to the federal arm of the law's impeccable humor- a salty and aplomb blend of sarcasm with a dash of rigid wordplay-

_Three-point-two miles to destination on left…_

It seemed as though was a perfect destination for Thatcher's first unaccompanied field trip, but that particular thought died a painful death around fifth time he'd taken a wrong turn.

Steeped in the middle of a laborious drive along the old railroad system spanning the lake-speckled foothills of the Adirondacks- from Saratoga Springs to North Creek- the building was one of the first brick and mortar school's built in the area. And though the hovels and hamlets that once nestled around it had cracked and crumbled to dust decades ago, there this single storied building remained.

They jokingly called it a unsafe-house; garnering that particular moniker thanks to its early days of being put to use for those unfortunate souls who were born with loose tongues during Prohibition. Barring a few run-ins with well-informed mobsters with Tommy guns, the building was so far from any speck of civilization, it remained a relatively safe option for rats to be kept when prison made them far too easy of a target. Since then, both the FBI and CIA often stashed high profile 'clients' there, away from prying eyes and far enough removed that their guest would think twice about getting cold feet and vanish.

Well, that was the sanctioned story, anyway.

_Two-point-five miles to destination on left…_

He'd heard the rumors, to be sure. Every up-and-comer stationed in New York did. This busted and haggard school building was something of a 'Hail Mary' when the agency's every other option had been exhausted. But, not for the petty norm, no. Not for traffickers, drug peddlers, or famous murderers did they gift their suspects with its antiquated halls. This little needle in a twelve thousand-year old forest played hearth to a kind of the people the world should sooner forget. Or if they had their way, never existing in the first place wholly sufficed.

Here they kept monsters, boogeymen unfit or far too gone to mingle with the aforementioned rabble. Here, in what used to be far-flung wild, they housed the people they truly feared.

_Two miles to destination on left_…

But something in lieu of that tall tale wasn't fitting well in Thatcher's mind, rookie or not.

"DeWitt, DeWitt…" he repeated the name for what seemed the twentieth time thus far into his drive. The name didn't ring any bell, and for the proudest bookworm and profiler to grace Langley this side of the millennium, that was a very big problem.

Ever since the call from Brooks came this morning, he had been scouring every file and log from every branch of local and national government for more on Marcus DeWitt. He searched through the entire history of his diseased brother, alias Johnny Vong, with as much fervor- from the hospital he was born in straight down to the number and types of infractions he had received at Harvard.

And the only blip that came up was a drug trafficking charge from New York- something typically the ATF or FBI would worry over- and this Vong character's acquittal of all charges just days ago. If the man had any priors before that, they weren't showing.

The file to his right, presently covering the sole piece of evidence Brooks had requested he bring, had the name DeWitt on it. It had all of the trappings of a marquee Person of Interest- a mere hours old photo clipped to its front, neatly organized and chronographic details of the Burbury murder down to an almost immaculate level of comprehensiveness. It had stamps upon letter-headed stamps from nearly every single division in the agency littered over its front from the dozens of desks it had passed over in the past few hours. He had even seen to enclosing a rather unavoidable reminder note about his phone call with that Georgian Sheriff.

But that was it.

Apart from a faxed set of tax and census records older than he was, there was absolutely nothing else on this man older than a day. No branch of government had called to claim him; no other country had swooped in to collect him. It was as if he had magically appeared and suddenly became the entire focus of national security…

"But why?" he murmured just as his Sat-Nav croaked to life again.

_One mile to destination on left…_

He knew that whoever had the answer to that question was far above his pay-grade, but that wasn't about to stop him from wondering at the very least. Particularly when he caught word around the office that the agency had brought on two outsiders to spearhead the investigation. Now, that wasn't all too unusual, even for the CIA. It was perfectly innocuous and in the realm of protocol for experts to come in from time to time when they were far too swamped or if a particular case was just out of their league.

But when that certain league was championed by a NYPD Detective and a best-selling crime novelist, even someone as wet under the ears as he was had to wonder if the sort of world he was driving towards was that important, or even merited his maiden voyage. None of it made sense, not for the caliber or the urgency of this case. A Senator and a reclusive geneticist are found murdered, and they send a mystery writer and his muse to solve it? And if that wasn't crazy enough, his boss was actually bringing them to the Day Care to talk to their first and only suspect…

And the lone piece of evidence alleging Senator Burbury's involvement in all of this- this wretched little book- was going to be in_ their_ hands… not his. Not his.

"No."

It didn't add up, none of it. Although the entire agency had been on high alert since the death of Alvin Burbury, there was absolutely no one truly "in the know" about this case that he could get some clarification from. Was it a case of espionage? A terrorist group? Targeted assassinations of high-level officials? It could be none of them; it could be all of them. Every scenario just didn't even come close to fitting with protocol. He and every other agent flittering around this investigation were basically in the dark as dark could get.

"Ah, to hell with it."

Thatcher gave a frustrated huff and pulled the car over to a wide graveled spot just on the precipice of the lake. He was tired of Brooks, tired of being a lowly secretary, tired of not knowing. The insatiable sponge of knowledge Langley honed him to become wouldn't relent the fact he was carrying the greatest piece of evidence arms' length from him. He pulled the leather-bound notebook out from under Marcus DeWitt's file.

He looked up from the book with a strange sense of satisfaction bubbling up his spine. There, no more than three-hundred yards from his car, scant traces and patches of the Day Care peeked through thick brush and arbor to meet his eyes.

_Arriving at destination on left…_

_Personal Accounts_, it read in perfect calligraphy across its center. Reveling for one more moment in the power, however brief it was to be, that he had in his hands, he quickly flipped open the glove compartment and pulled out a his own personal notepad. And with a hunger coursing behind his eyes he hadn't felt since he stepped foot in New England, he flipped open its binder and began to read.

_Arriving at destination on left…_

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Peering around Oliver, Castle looked through the thinly slit door window and into a relatively familiar looking room. Washed in a bland bluish hue from some unseeable light high above its center, its greyed and gloomed walls and contents mimicked his and Beckett's most frequented section of the precinct perfectly, even down to a simple wooden table sitting directly at its midpoint. Two empty chairs sat waiting on one of its sides, and on the other, he saw nothing but the hunched back of Marcus DeWitt. Gone was the bandage that had covered his skull, and surprisingly, it made him look even worse. His short raven hair was slickened and shiny, jutting out in countless haphazard directions, making him more reminiscent of a fool who played with electricity than a fool who thought he could hurt Beckett.

"Before we begin," Agent Brooks intoned. "I have just one more thing to say."

"While I'm sure I don't have to remind you, Detective, I must impress this. In there, we have a man that has been in the dark for two decades. So, if he doesn't want to cooperate, I want you to give him a little history lesson."

Brooks walked over to a table sitting just opposite of the interrogation room and pulled a large white box to his waist.

"Inside this box, you will find everything we have on Rathborne, which isn't a lot to be honest. Everything I've managed to assimilate on them is right here- including some files I imagine you're pretty familiar with." He lifted the top of the box off and quickly pulled out five thickened beige folders. Turning back to them, he held the files out.

Castle fell in line right behind Beckett as she stepped over to the agent and took the files. The very moment she opened the first folder, he couldn't help but let his jaw slacken a little. The very first page was a face he was hoping that he wouldn't have to see again for a while- or ever if the fates were kind to her.

He wasn't a naïve man, not by any stretch. He knew at some point in this case, the names of those victims would resurface. Yet, why drudge them up here? Why, right before they interrogated a man so indirectly related to those murders? The two were connected, Castle was certain of that. However, there wasn't any way to tell if that connection spanned a dozen conversations or a dozen years. DeWitt had been dead, for lack of a better term, since people wore Hammer pants- he knew that, and Brooks definitely had to know that. So why was this even here?

"Coonan." The venom in Beckett's cadence wasn't hard to miss.

"And the files of all of his… victims." Brooks' voice faded into a wary lilt.

_Victims_, even the implication that Brooks undoubtedly was edging toward washed his nerves under ebb of icy thoughts against the elderly man. That's his angle, Castle thought with a barely controlled grimace. Beckett's history was his angle. The agent had scarcely looked away from Beckett since handing her the files. He'd seen that type of play before, be it in the bullpen as suspects were led by in cuffs or in the eyes of any officer of the law leveling their gaze on a perp from Observation. He knew that look all too well, after all, that look was the innate expression of any writer worth their salt. He was searching for detail, for the minutest of cogs that made her figurative wheels turn into frenzy. He was sizing her up, waiting for just a whisper of an emotional fissure to tear apart, to be susceptible to exploit.

By whom, though, in that moment no small part of him clamored to smack the grey-haired agent until he said so- and to apologized to Beckett.

He lifted his eyes to Kate, intently and carefully, searching the soft slope of her jaw for sudden currents of strain. Faint traces of fatigue still lined her eyes from the poor, sporadic bouts of rest both of them have endured. And at no other point in his time that he'd known her had he ever wished so fervently that she wasn't so persistent- so relentless. There, in the scant glances her honey-brown eyes took to fall to the face of her mother's murderer, he recognized a sobering dimness warring its way through their ever-present, crackling ferocity.

But the chasm that no doubt led to the deepest recesses of her will never opened. For the plush, dusty crimson edges of her lips vanished into a thin frozen line before gloom and shadow could wear them away.

"You think DeWitt would know about any of this, sir?" Beckett asked in a curiously cool voice. "He's been 'dead' since 1991, these murders happened in 1999-"

"-Which happened to be committed by a man who was using DeWitt's younger brother to peddle opium." Brooks interjected. "I have no doubt that Mr. DeWitt will know who Dick Coonan is, Detective. There are three- three- known, _tangible,_ links to an entity named Rathborne in existence: Dick Coonan, the man inside that room, and the memories of your mother's case inside your mind. There is a connection; somewhere in there it all ties together, of that I am certain."

Beckett opened her mouth to reply, but was summarily cut off when Brooks raised his hand.

"But, let me make myself clear, Detective Beckett." He said in an oddly gentle voice. "I know your history- all of it. Please, do not let your personal ties to Coonan get in the way of our goal. You need to get as much information out of Mr. DeWitt as possible, but don't use your fists to do it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Castle wasn't sure why Beckett chose that moment to grow silent. A flurry of coarse delightfully indignant retorts clamored their way to the tip of his tongue hoping, nay, praying, to correct the agent's insultingly skewed views of his partner. Where in the world was this man's sudden arrogance coming from? She personified professionalism under fire- he even wrote a little book about it. Even insinuating that she would go to such depths for answers was infuriating beyond belief.

But he waited- waited more- and still, her lips showed no impetus to assure the elderly man.

"Do I make myself clear, Detective Beckett?" Brooks repeated sharply.

Something in the air prickled over the nape of his neck, something colder than he'd ever felt. Concern fractured away to confusion, to worry. A force faintly his own urged his hand upward, higher and higher until only scant fibers of space kept her stiffened shoulder from his embrace.

"Kate-"

Then at once, her eyes flickered and slipped towards the Interrogation Room along with the rest of her.

"Let's go, Castle."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

The three-folded pamphlet trapped between his thumb and two fingers was beginning to show its wear. The edges were beginning to curl; milky remnants of a mishandled Mocha Latte had blotched over the scenic swells of arbor and sweeping _verdi valatte_ of some nearby utopian scape. But through the murky stain, he could still see his mark, flushing in relief from the expansive verdant forces playing warden to what resembled a wisp of stone from the pictures vantage.

**Castelli di Arezzo: Visita Guidata**

"Here you are, signore." Lilted in a thick Tuscan inflection, a young lady's jovial voice heralded her casual reemergence from some cubicle tucked away just beyond the counter where he waited. In her hand, a dimorphic clutter of brochures and postcards fanned out in her palm like the feathers of a bristling peacock.

Their scenes were as rich in history as the soil under his feet. Scores of ornately embroidered rubble and ancient stonework, no more than genuflected motifs in most of the pictures, were garnishing these destinations, these byways, with a quieted splendor unharried and unrivaled by the modern amalgamates that rose around them. Enticing didn't quite describe them adequately. If it were any other point in his life, where sleep hadn't forsaken him for days, where he carried no other accord save his own curiosity, he would have taken those other brochures and happily lost himself in the verdure of Tuscany.

"Have you chosen a tour package?" the lady ask politely.

His moods, his wanderlust, however, took precedence no longer. The game he would soon play, there in the coffee stained expanse captured underneath his thumb, would be the culmination of a decade of secrets and mistakes. A decade of helplessly watching his daughter confront demons no parent should ever witness their child bear alone. Somewhere in this panoramic glimpse of the Casentino Valley lay the curs that had brought hell onto his family. The day was finally here, he mused. It was time he returned the favor in kind.

But this was no time to be brash; if there was anything he had learned from his daughter and her career, it was that no matter how perfect a plan might be, there was always a devil waiting to be found in the slightest of details. The ornate silver key still resting snugly is his pants pocket was testament to that fact. He had to be careful, he had to be subtle. Both his and his daughter's life depended on it.

"I believe so, but I have one more question, signora," the elderly man said, casually tapping the dog-eared bottom of the paper against the marbled countertop. "It's about the rest of the guided tour in this pamphlet."

"Yes?" she replied expectantly.

"Castel San Niccolo," he scratched his fingers over the growing stubble on his chin for a moment before laying a lone finger squarely over the coffee stained picture's focal point. "Say, is that a part of the tour as well?"

"Sì lo è, signore." The lady flashed a cordial smile before returning her gaze to the computer. "It will go to San Niccolo along with five other castles. That particular tour covers popular destinations of medieval architecture in the Arezzo province."

"Will it be available as part of the tour two weeks from today?" He replied, stressing his last word.

"Ah, un momento per favore." she paused, looking back to her computer as she swiped as at a few keys. "I'm sorry, Mister…"

"Beckett," he said quickly, smiling warmly. "Jim Beckett."

"Signore Beckett," she began. "I'm afraid that a tour will not be going to San Niccolo that day in two weeks- it will be, how do you say… restricted?"

"Yes?" he said with an encouraging nod, silently hoping he wasn't pushing for too much.

"Si, a private party booked the place some time ago and will be there for…" she glanced back over to the computer just for a scant second. "Two days. It would typically be a part of the second day of tours, but we will have to skip it."

"Two days in two weeks from now…" he muttered to himself. For all intents and purposes, he was never the type of man who paid attention to the clock. Seasons and all their comings and goings were an older, more abstract sensation to him. As a child, his parents were keen to teach him the mysteries of the sky, the celestial mechanics and intangible heavenly wheels that comprised the oldest form of timekeeping in human history. Alignments, cycles of stars and distant planets, equinoxes and solstices were more than markings on modern calendars to him, and for a large majority of human history they were more than mere dates to reset a clock. From these cosmic notations, as his father would often say, reason was born- and all mankind became masters of the only true enemy humanity has ever had- time.

It fit, he thought with a growing, troubled frown. It had to be them. Their timing was perfect. It was always perfect.

"Could you please book me for the tour going that weekend?" He said while holding up two slender fingers. "The tour that is going two weeks from now?"

"Are you sure, signore? If you would like to join the tour heading out in three days, you will be able to see San Niccolo." She offered while furiously typing away at what most likely was a new tour packet.

"Oh, no, but thank you." Jim replied quickly as he pulled out his billfold. "I'm sure I'll survive without seeing it."

With the transaction quickly made, the hazel eyed woman gave him a brief itinerary of the trip. Covering all of the run-of-the-mill travel accommodations and packing tips.

"Your bus will be leaving in eight days, signore. I hope you have a good time!" she bid him, giving a quick wave before darting into the back again.

With one last appreciative smile to her, he left the building letting an unexpected surge of adrenaline take his nerves. He looked back towards the direction of his hotel and hailed a taxi, bits and pieces of the purpose for his next destination gradually collecting in his thoughts.

"Mortal wound to the kidney." He whispered to himself as he slipped his tour receipt in his pocket. "Multiple superficial wounds masking the deathblow…"

He learned in the weeks after Dick Coonan had been killed that it was this pattern that tipped off his daughter, which turned the proverbial snowball of his wife's murder into a far reaching avalanche. The pattern, the signature of deaths, however unfortunate, couldn't be followed any more. And however elated he was that the man who took his wife was dead, that didn't change the fact that the assassin left behind untold and unknowable loose ends- over things that were forever silenced along with him, things that would never add up.

It was a rather tumultuous month following Coonan's death. On many fronts he felt nothing but anger. There were some nights, however, he felt utterly cheated. The closure he scarcely thought he would ever see come to fruition turned out to be nothing less than a taunt, a heartless derision from beyond the grave.

But he knew something was missing, something that went beyond his wife's assassination. It wasn't until his daughter had told him of Coonan's three other victims did his anger turn to confusion. All of their names were vaguely familiar, and though he held no hope to ever find out why, he decided to search anyway. And one day, in his leisurely readings he found it. Each of them connected to his wife- but more importantly, her career. For weeks he called in favors from her old colleagues, in his spare time he did his own legwork. The more he found on the three others, the more confident he grew that he was on the right path. He'd thought he had finally found the missing link: all of them died related to a case they had been working on at the time of their deaths.

But he was wrong,

To both his shame and shock, that revelation didn't strike him until the headline _Senator Burbury Murdered_ was plastered over the front of every newspaper in the state.

The very same man he had met for lunch three days before his wife's death.

"And there were three other victims with the same hallmark, all by the same killer." Again, he whispered, oblivious to the curious stares a few passersby gave him. "All of them linked to one _missing_ file: Johanna, Jennifer Stewart, Scott Murray, and…"

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"Dianne Cavanaugh," The piercing mocha eyes of the Medical Examiner never left the tiny notebook in her hands. "That's the third one that had Dick Coonan's M.O apart from Kate's mom and Jack Coonan."

"And that's all of them?" With no immediately reply, Esposito looked up from his notes and straight into the testing, bemused eyes of Lanie Parish.

"Gotcha."

"Did Beckett look at these cases?" Leaning against a nearby counter, Ryan crossed his arms as he made a quick motion with his head to the door.

"I'd bet my paycheck my girl has probably looked at those three victims more than her mom's." Lanie said, turning with a knowing grin as she shut her notepad and went to place it back in her desk.

"Why?"

The lithe raven haired woman stilled a moment before turning back to them. "You two don't know?"

Sharing a quick look over to his partner, who simply shrugged in confusion, Esposito returned his focus back to Lanie. "Know what?"

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"Do you know why you are here, Mr. DeWitt?" Beckett strode into the room and promptly slapped the large stack of files onto the table.

Watching the interplay from the corner of his eyes, Castle quietly stepped into the room and shut the door as softly as possible. He turned to follow her to the seats on the other side of table, but he halted mid-step, almost losing his balance as he recoiled from nearly barreling into her back. Beckett had stopped behind the hunched man, towering over him as though she were preparing to devour him whole.

"Oh, so you know my name." DeWitt let out a chuckle, keeping his gaze directly on the table.

He saw Beckett's shoulders stiffen somewhat as she moved away from the man and began to walk around to the other side of the table. Keeping his eyes on DeWitt, he unhurriedly began to follow her.

"They said you weren't talking," Castle spoke up.

"And _they_ were the opening act." DeWitt lazily replied. "Let's just say that I wanted to save my breath for the main event."

"Answer the question, Marcus." She said as she pulled out a chair and slipped into it.

"You found me, you know my name, and you haven't killed me, lady, so it's kind of obvious why I'm here."

Castle paused just as his hand reached his chair. He looked back to the haggard and beaten hulk in cuffs and cocked his head to the side, replaying the words he'd just heard. That didn't make sense, he thought. He thought they were going kill him? Anyone who had a renowned name had either of two things going for them: they spent the days and nights running from rabid fans wanting autographs; or, they spent their lives running from outstanding warrants.

"Marcus," she said impatiently.

"Wait. You really want me to answer something you already know?" To Castle's confusion, DeWitt began to laugh raucously. "My God, they still train you shrimps to be all that you can be, don't they."

"Shrimps, huh?" Castle bristled. Beckett was_ not_ a shrimp. "Answer the-"

"Yes, spineless and clueless errand boys, y'all have always been that way." DeWitt suddenly snapped. "You're Military Police- that's your M.O. and now I have mine. I'm not dead… ergo, I'm going to jail."

For a moment, Castle was sure the room began to spin. His breath, catching and setting heavy in his chest, stilled as abruptly as his mind did on two very explosive words: Military. Police.

_Oh, shi_-

"Wait… ex-excuse me?" Beckett's reply uncharacteristically stammered out.

"Sargent Marcus DeWitt, 12th Bravo Company," he replied in a crisp, sarcastic tone. "Reporting for incarceration, Ma'am."

DeWitt gave a surly smile, obviously relishing in the look of shock undoubtedly on his and Beckett's faces.

"There," came his curt reply as he slouched back into the chair. "Happy?"

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**Author's Notes**: This is a 14 page document on Word. On top of that, there are close to 19 pages of notes and scrapped scenes for this chapter alone- three different arcs that this story could have taken all stem from the last scene. Next chapter will be up tomorrow. :)


	25. Worth A Thousand Words

**Chapter 25 – Worth A Thousand Words**

"Don't look so shocked on my behalf, fellas." DeWitt quipped. The sound of chains dragging across the floor filled the room and seemed to do the same to Castle's gut. "Or did they not teach you two proper detainment protocols during training?"

"You-" Beckett words turned careful and low. "You think that we are MP?"

He wanted to speak up, to rattle out some off-the-wall theory that could dissolve his confusion, but nothing from the case sprang up. Unsure if he even trusted his voice at the moment, Castle simply turned to Beckett, hoping her eyes didn't hold half the befuddlement coursing through his. Something was off, terribly, terribly off. Quickly skimming over his memories of his brawl with DeWitt in Rose Hill mansion, he recalled the flurry of threats- and bullets- DeWitt had hurled at him, and nowhere in their little parlay did he give any indication that he thought they were there to detain him. He distinctly recalled the man before him not so delicately warning them to stay away from his brother.

"What else would you be?" A single brow slightly rose from the bruise covering his swollen eye.

"One; I'm asking the questions here. Two; nowhere in that lovely stack of files by my right hand will you find your name." Beckett said coolly, casually pushing the stack of files to the side of the table further and further from his suddenly piqued eyes.

"Humor me, Marcus. Why do you think we're Military Police?"

And just like that, a proverbial bulb seemed to ignite inside Marcus DeWitt's head. A glimmer of suspicion trickled through his indifference. The playful smirk etching along his bruised cheeks faltered-

-But only for a single, hopeful moment.

"Don't play dumb with me, lady." DeWitt leaned forward, looking positively insulted. His large hands appeared from his lap, clasped so tightly his flesh began to pale. "Let's see. You've got me in handcuffs, haven't read me my rights, and all you've done is answer my questions with more questions. But most importantly, you haven't shot me in the head. So, if you're not MP, what do you expect me to think you are? My ex-wife's lawyers? No one carts a guy like me on to an airplane and tosses me in a building with a bag over my head unless they're two things: military or friends with too much spare time. And considering that all of my friends are dead, that kind of simplifies this dilemma."

"If you were in any way neither of the two, _before you shot me in the head_, the only question out of your mouth would have been about my brother. And judging by the poorly veiled look of confusion on your partner's face, Miss, I think it's safe to assume that firing on you two was a case of mistaken identity. So, what I'm trying to say is that, yes, you're military police. Nothing else makes sense."

"Fine, who did you think we were then?" Beckett didn't miss a beat. She leaned forward, mimicking his same perturbed expression and continued.

"Oh, no," DeWitt quickly recoiled back from the table, shaking his head vigorously. "I'm not answering that."

"You will."

"No, I won't. This ain't the time or the place for that discussion, and it has very little to do with my arrest."

"Actually, Marcus, it does."

"Is she serious…?" Marcus looked over the Castle and groaned. "Save your breath, lady."

"It might come as a shock to you, Mr. DeWitt," Castle spoke up and pointed to the nearby stack of folders. "But, that discussion is exactly why we're here."

"I doubt that. Trust me, who I thought you were is not exactly in an MP's jurisdiction."

Castle sighed as softly as he could. There wasn't any doubt the certainty in the large man's voice was legitimate. But why would he think that? How could a dead man, who admittedly had the craft and guile to evade the world of the living for two decades, be mistaken so soundly?

"Look, Marcus- we're not military personnel. We're here about-"

"Prove it." DeWitt interrupted him.

"How?" Castle replied. To be certain, there a few ideas floating around the author's mind on how to prove their identity- but that involved a trip to the bookstore and _maybe_ destroying this case faster than Ryan in a game of Halo.

But before the stocky, raven-haired man could reply, Beckett pulled the very top file from the stack of folders and promptly slid it across the table, right under DeWitt's nose.

"Open that and you'll find out."

"What is it?" He asked. His voice was laced with curiosity, but his hands didn't budge from his lap.

She merely replied with a testing smirk before reaching across Castle.

"Why would the military police be looking for you, Marcus?" Beckett asked as she grabbed a pad from the stack of folders and began to scribble down a few words.

"The Army thinks I'm dead…?" He replied with a strange quirk in his brows and looked over to Castle. "She is serious, isn't she?"

He gave the larger man a knowing smile and replied. "So, they think you're dead? Did you desert or something?"

DeWitt immediately scoffed. "No… it's more like they deserted me."

Beckett reached inside her jacket pocket and pulled out a familiar looking folded piece of paper. Quickly opening it, she briefly glanced down to it before laying it on top of the closed folder in front of their suspect.

"I take it _that_," she extended a lone finger down to a series of tiny dates underneath his name, "is when you left the army, Mr. DeWitt?"

Castle leaned closer and immediately recognized the paper. It was the very same copy of county census records that Sheriff Teague had handed them moments before they rushed off to Rose Hill. A strange thought flitted through him, trepid and barely above the many whispers narrating every flinch and telling expression the man across from them was giving. The author leaned back, his eyes carefully glancing between the beaten man and his stone-faced partner.

_Why did she keep that?_

Marcus' eyes flickered down to the sheet and back to Beckett in an instant. "Yes, that's when I left: February 6th, 1991."

"You're positive." Beckett ventured.

"Of course I'm positive," Marcus sighed heavily. "That's a day I'm never going to forget for obvious reasons."

As that very last word from Marcus DeWitt's mouth met Castle's ears, it was as though a heavy feeling of déjà vu clouded away the pale room and its other occupants from sight. And if by some waking instinct alone, he relaxed his gaze and he felt his writing hand give a subtle twitch.

_He said reasons_…

To an author, every word has its own merit. There were moments for him, often late at night when Alexis and his mother were already fast asleep, and he would be staring down at an utterly blank screen. Listless, frenzied, all at once. A deadline or three would have already been eclipsed by this point, and one would think that nerves would will his fingers to dance over the keys stretched under that pearly immaculate screen if for nothing but his own dignity.

But dignity never became party to those moments. It was a silly thought, the reprimanding, and trifle more judicious angels of his talents never failed to remind. But there were times when a single word would so fervently burrow its way in his thoughts that it played more a dam than a stream to follow. And there, staring down at that screen and that blinking, taunting black bar waiting to be chased down line by line- by senses and sensation, he would leave himself and his digital agitator. He would leave the mantle of composer, if for only a few quiet moments, to reacquaint with the equally unharried wanderings of a philosopher.

A Shakespeare, he was not. Still, the anatomy of a word ensconced in those enticing jaunts appealed to the romantic in him. They were, after all, the atoms that mingled and married to form bodies, be it of thoughts, ideas, or earth-shattering proclamations. Without them, expression, _human_ expression, wouldn't exist. But on those nights when a single word, a perfect word for a perfect expression, escaped his every fevered thought, he would think about those atoms… but on a grander scale.

Within every speck of matter in existence, these particles existed. Somehow, little by little, they coalesced into unique forms, each with purpose, and each with its own body or state of being. Billions upon billions of these things that would otherwise demand not even a glancing thought over an entire lifetime was the very fabric that made _everything_ possible. In some way, by some indescribable genius, it formed perfectly to _make_ _existence_. As with any body, sentient or not, the procession of these atoms were the most important parts of that body's creation. So too was it true with words; it was all about the order in which they were formed– rather, the idea that they, too, could grow flesh.

Expression could breathe and live as wondrously as the mouth that formed it; particularly when the nuance of a single word could irrevocably alter its existence.

"…_that's a day I'm never going to forget for obvious reasons._"

Something was hiding inside this man's words, something all the years of putting a restless pen to paper beckoned him to expound.

Reasons, he wondered. Hadn't they only cited one…?

"Marcus," he couldn't help but blurt out. "Could you elaborate on those obvious reas-"

But he was cut short when Beckett's hand flew up between them in a placating blur. He looked over to her, rather confused at her interjection.

"And you've been hiding since then?" She asked.

"For the most part," DeWitt nodded. "Do you mind telling me why that even matters at this point? I'm already detained, I'm already in your hands."

"You've been in the Savannah area this entire time?" Ignoring his question, Beckett continued as she scribbled something else down on her notes.

"Well…" DeWitt cocked his head to an awkward angle. "No. No, I haven't."

"Where were you seven days ago?"

"I was where you found me," he replied a little slower, a little more confused.

"…And why were you there?"

Silence was his only reply.

"Marcus, do you want to tell me or do I have to say it for you?"

It came as little surprise to Castle as DeWitt remained utterly silent, glaring down to the folder Beckett placed in front of him as though he were trying to disappear inside of it. To his left, he heard Beckett give a loud sigh before setting down her notes on to the table. She casually reached for the stack of files and pulled all of them to herself.

"You see, Mr. DeWitt, my partner and I are leading a special investigation." She explained with a curious lilt of calm. "We went to Rose Hill for a reason, but it wasn't to find you. For the past seven days, we have been collecting evidence for a double murder that took place in New York. And do you want to hear the really coincidental thing about that double murder, Marcus?"

Taking his continued silence for further curiosity, Beckett resumed her explanation. "I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that you had anything to do with these murders- I think you're genuinely certain that we're MP. But here's the thing: these other guests you were expecting- you know, the ones you wanted to shoot at instead of us? _They_ had something to do with these murders, and from what we can tell they killed these two people because of something they knew. And you know what? Something tells me that since you were ready to kill them… they think you do, too.

"So you were there for a reason, right? Did it have anything to do with this man?"

Ever so deliberately, her darkened brown eyes stayed on Marcus as her hand slipped underneath the front of the very top file labeled 'Confidential'. And time seemed to slow to a crawl as the glossy, airbrushed photograph of a smiling Senator Burbury came into view for every occupant in the room to see.

Castle would have been lying to himself if he said that he hadn't dreamed up a few scenarios for this very moment ever since they were on the plane back to New York. Visions of Beckett in her truest and most terrifying element were plentiful: she, a righteous arbiter of justice looming like a Fury over the trembling form of Marcus DeWitt, and he, finally cracking and spilling the secrets of Rathborne like a dam bursting under the ferocity of a raging surge. He envisioned names, dates, vindication in so many ways. But as they say, reality can often be stranger than fiction.

Not a single thump of a heartbeat passed before a rush of angry tears poured from their suspect. A glimpse of a thirsting fire woke behind DeWitt's swollen and bruised eyes. And they grew darker.

Darker.

And then, all hell broke loose.

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AN: Sorry for the delay guys :( Had no access to my story files since Monday. Next update will be tomorrow!


	26. Odd Man Out

**Chapter 26- Odd Man Out**

"What in the world just happened in there…?"

Castle looked away from his equally off-guard partner's furrowing expression and back through the narrowly slit door window. Even through the thick steel door between them and the adjoining room, he could still hear DeWitt screaming a near incoherent string of curses. Oliver was still towering over him doing the very same thing he'd been doing for the past five minutes: pushing down on both of the man's shoulders with what looked to be all of his strength to keep their suspect in his chair.

"I don't know. That was…" Beckett paused and sighed. One of her hands came into view and made a quick twisting motion. Castle turned slightly away from the door, and not a moment later, she quickly shuffled her way towards him and slid in between his chest and the door.

"Unexpected?" Castle said lowly as he peered over the back of Beckett's head and into the room.

"Yeah." She whispered back. "Are you alright?"

…_Taking his continued silence for further curiosity, Beckett resumed her explanation. "I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that you had anything to do with these murders- I think you're genuinely certain that we're MP. But here's the thing: these other guests you were expecting- you know, the ones you wanted to shoot at instead of us? They had something to do with these murders, and from what we can tell they killed these two people because of something they knew. And you know what? Something tells me that since you were ready to kill them… they think you do, too._

"_So you were there for a reason, right? Did it have anything to do with this man?"_

_Ever so deliberately, her darkened brown eyes stayed on Marcus as her hand slipped underneath the front of the very top file labeled 'Confidential'. And time seemed to slow to a crawl as the glossy, airbrushed photograph of a smiling Senator Burbury came into view for every occupant in the room to see._

_Castle would have been lying to himself if he said that he hadn't dreamed up a few scenarios for this very moment ever since they were on the plane back to New York. Visions of Beckett in her truest and most terrifying element were plentiful: she, a righteous arbiter of justice looming like a Fury over the trembling form of Marcus DeWitt, and he, finally cracking and spilling the secrets of Rathborne like a dam bursting under the ferocity of a raging surge. He envisioned names, dates, vindication in so many ways. But as they say, reality can often be stranger than fiction._

_Not a single thump of a heartbeat passed before a rush of angry tears poured from their suspect. A glimpse of a thirsting fire woke behind DeWitt's swollen and bruised eyes. And they grew darker._

_Darker._

_And then, all hell broke loose._

"_Where…" the rest of DeWitt's words fractured apart, slipping under the static of a thickening growl lodged somewhere in his throat._

"_Where did you get this?"_

_Beckett sighed and shook her head emphatically. "Marcus, do you-"_

"_WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?"_

_Before Castle felt his body instinctively flinch away from Marcus' deafening roar, the large man burst from his chair-_

-_along with the bolted down chain that was supposed to be binding him to the floor._

"_Whoa! Whoa!" Castle eyes widened in alarm as the table separating them from their suspect soared into the air like a wave breaking on a rock. Stumbling back and toppling over his chair as he shot up, he looked up, struck with panic, as two very large and very determined looking hands were already hurdling towards his face._

_He closed his eyes, turned his face, bracing himself for the imminent impact. But it never came. A loud crack sounded in the room, and he shot open his eyes just in time to see the blur of Beckett's balled fist following through along Marcus' jaw. The poor bastard hit the floor, sprawling like a ragged doll over the upturned tabled before his eyes had time to close._

_In a flash, the ogre and Brooks burst into the room, their guns drawn and zeroed in on the back of DeWitt's head. Both of the agents were yelling- at who, or for what, he wasn't sure. But the next thing Castle knew, Brooks had him by the arm. He felt his whole body lurch backward, being forced towards the door as his gaze flickered between the unconscious suspect and his partner, who was scrounging over the floor, tiredly picking up the littered-about files._

"I'll be alright once you tell me where you learned to throw a hook like that."

"Oh?" she whispered back, a smile floating somewhere in her voice. "You liked that, didn't you?"

Giving a small smile, he opted for a little silence and looked on as Oliver unceremoniously hoisted DeWitt back up and plopped him down in his chair. Judging by the sudden flinch that crossed his face when a new pair of chain-linked cuffs was slapped on his legs and feet, they weren't exactly treating the man with the utmost care to say the least.

"Something's not right here, Castle." She suddenly whispered back to him.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I can't believe he's actually conscious already."

"No…" he could practically feel her eyes rolling through her reply. "I mean with this guy."

"With DeWitt?" He replied.

"Yeah." She began. "Not about his involvement or anything, but his behavior. I mean, we go in there and he is nothing but attitude. He won't cooperate; he won't give a straight answer."

She turned her head slightly to the side; just enough for Castle to catch the troubled look in her most obscured eyes, and continued. "But, we show him a picture of Senator Burbury and he blows up. What are we missing here?"

"Nothing?" he ventured. "He just gave himself away. He knows Burbury. That's as good of a lead for questioning as we could ask for."

"Yeah, I know. But it's something else." She sighed. "Apart from the little… episode he just had. Something about his behavior is bugging the hell out of me."

"Beyond the whole getting caught while faking his death thing?" He said, giving her a quick, urging tap on the shoulder. Mentally thanking the cosmos for their peculiar psychic moments as he felt her body shuffle a little closer to his arm still bracing against the door, he craned further over her to get a better view inside the room.

"Well," he whispered close to her ear. "I have to admit that when we got here, I didn't expect him to be so…"

"Stable?" she offered.

Before Castle parted his lips to respond, the door suddenly flew open. Both he and Beckett jumped out of the way as Brooks barged out with a fitful look in his eyes. "Alright, get back in there. I'll keep Agent Oliver on the other side of the door just in case he snaps his new set of jewelry as well. And please, find out what in the hell just made him go nuclear, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Beckett gave a quick motion with her hands and strode back into the room. By the time Castle had shut the door behind him, Beckett was already back in her seat, arranging the stack of files in front of her and placing the single manila folder back in front of DeWitt.

"Do you mind telling me what that was all about, Marcus?" she intoned, raising a single brow.

He remained silent.

"You know him, don't you?" Castle remarked.

"Where did you get this picture…?" DeWitt's sudden question came out just above whisper. But even as hard to hear as its words were, there was something that was vastly different in his tone from the cocky hubris they had first walked in on. At first glance, he would have assumed nothing had changed. The permanent smirk was still there, even the eerie calm had settled back into his expression once more. But he hadn't looked up to them; he hadn't taken his eyes off of the photo of Senator Burbury yet. The smirk was beginning to look more and more like a snarl the longer he looked.

Looking to his left, Castle met the frustrated eyes of his partner, but just for the briefest of moments. He wasn't going to budge, he saw the acceptance of that in Kate's eyes, but he had a feeling that she wasn't about to either.

"I'll tell you where we got this picture once you tell me if you know him." She said.

"I do, I know him."

"How?" Castle replied.

DeWitt finally looked up, but with a strange glint of disbelief lighting up his face. "No, I'm not answering that. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." She shot back.

For a moment, DeWitt looked between her and the file close to his chest. He began biting his lip, and with a pointed glance to the door, he softly nodded.

"He's dead, isn't he?" It wasn't so much a question, but a hollow affirmation.

"How did…" Castle glanced to Beckett and back to Marcus. "How did you know that?"

"I might have been living in a cave for the past two decades, but saw plenty of the world before that, sir. Look, I know y'all are just doing your job." He looked up to both of them pointedly, and strange chill went up Castle's spine. "But, if I tell you why I know that man, both of you will be dead within the next hour."

"Ah, an ominous warning." Beckett shrugged and leaned back in her chair. "Try harder. That's already an occupational hazard of mine."

"Huh," DeWitt gave a strange chuckle as he stared at Beckett. "You guys really aren't MP, are you?"

"No we're not." Beckett nearly growled out. "You're right about one thing though. He is dead. That's why we have his picture and that's why we're here."

"I didn't kill him, lady."

"It's Agent Rook, and I didn't ask if you did…" she coolly replied and locked eyes with the massive man.

"So you're telling me that you flew all the way down to Savannah to interrogate my ass about a backwoods county commissioner?" DeWitt said with an incredulous laugh.

"Try Senator." Castle corrected.

And with those words, DeWitt visibly paled.

"Wait. Wait!" Marcus shook his head almost violently so. "You're telling me that he's a Senator?"

"He _was_- was a Senator. He had two-terms in office before he was gunned down. And from what I hear, he was an up-and-comer in the Foreign Relations Committee," Castle said with a small nod. Was this man really shocked more about the revelation that Burbury was a Senator than the fact he was murdered? Beckett was absolutely right: this man's behavior was far too gone to read properly.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? What signs telling of withheld knowledge could he look for? Dilated eyes? Sudden, erratic muscle twitches? All the tell-tale giveaways he'd ever seen Beckett invoke in the guilty couldn't apply here. There had been many moments over the course of his career that he'd imagined impregnable suspects. He'd even wondered what it would feel like to be in the throes of hair-pulling heights of frustration over nowhere interrogations. But, this was something else entirely. How do you possibly question a man on a week old murder that presumably hasn't seen the light of day in over twenty years?

"A Senator?" Marcus repeated. "No, no you're joking."

"I guess that answers if he knew him or not," Castle whispered over to Beckett, who gave an almost imperceptible nod in agreement.

"Do you know if he had any enemies, Mr. DeWitt?" she asked, pointedly tapping the tip of her finger on the picture.

A glimmer of that cockiness flashed once again in his eyes.

"He was a politician." He said slowly as though he were talking to a toddler.

"He was a _clean_ politician." Castle piped in.

To his heightening befuddlement, the proverbial pendulum between them stilled when DeWitt suddenly stopped. The large man made no move to respond; his expression didn't fade or falter under any reflex. Marcus merely stared right back at him with a discerning scrutiny so unsettling that he absently wondered if this man had ever met Gina.

"Are you sure?" DeWitt said in a strange, soft tone, cocking his head slightly to the side.

"His records certainly seem to say so," Beckett argued as she opened the folder that had contained the dead Senator's picture and tilted it towards her chest. "Do you have reason to believe it's not correct? I can read it all out for you if it'll jog your memory."

"My memory is fine, Agent. It is particularly flawless where that man is concerned." DeWitt shook his head.

She paused, her eyes studying the man across from them intently. "Care to elaborate?"

Somewhere in the back of Castle's mind, he wondered where Beckett was taking this. It was obvious that DeWitt wasn't going to give an iota of information on Burbury. Every question about the Senator bounced off the man like a rubber ball- like a highly seasoned veteran of interrogation tactics. What could possibly make a man like that crack, he mused. What would they have to… wait.

_Wait_…

In a flash, Castle snatched the leather notebook that was currently resting on Beckett's lap. He ignored the strange glance she gave and promptly closed his eyes. As he blindly felt around in the right pocket of his jacket for a pen, certain details from their conversation with DeWitt so far leapt in his mind in vibrant, meticulous imagery. The way he slouched- the picture of total insouciance- at their arrival, the confusion marring his expression as indelibly as the bruises on his face about their identity. There were true moments of shock appearing here and there. He was a breathing example of every emotion he expected from a modern day Rumpelstiltskin. But something was missing, something that should have been there in all its blinding transparency the whole time.

Grief.

"Again, Agent Rook, I'm not going to-"

"-Does it involve Rathborne?" Beckett's abrupt accusation cut like a knife through the man's languid voice as well as Castle's inner musings.

Castle opened his eyes just in time to see DeWitt's freshly bruised jaw promptly dropping in shock. However strongly he wanted to relish in the beauty of Beckett's ability to throw a good curveball, he didn't want to waste another moment. With a click of his pen, he quickly scribbled down the single piece of information that would turn any crack DeWitt had in his steely armor into a full-blown crater.

_Kate, he doesn't know that his brother is __dead__._

Sliding the notebook back onto her lap, he watched as her eyes dip down and the slowly fill with a strangely somber hue of realization. She tilted her gaze to him for a moment, and then he saw nothing but woefully veiled fury. Not at him, he was sure of that. But if he had to wager, it was probably solely directed to Brooks for inadvertently making her the bearer of bad news. It came as no surprise to him when she slowly closed the notebook and returned her attention back to Marcus.

Though not without the glower of contempt still burning in her eyes.

Well, he thought, maybe that omission about Vong wasn't an accident. Perhaps the elderly agent intended it to be leverage. But he knew Beckett, he knew her well. Hell and high water would have to come before she _used_ a victim. Under every circumstance they'd ever found themselves staring down, he had never seen her resort to emotional sabotage. She was bigger than that- smarter than that by a mile. Most cops would take this sort of information and blast it right through a perp's heart because it got results, because it was the easy thing to do. But for her, victims weren't carrots meant to be dangled on a stick. As the difficulty of most of her cases showed, she didn't care for easy. The virtues of Right and Just were the anchors of her heart, and she solved the toughest of cases in spite of that fact. It's what made her so extraordinary, so intoxicating.

_So undeniable_.

Yet, this wasn't an ordinary case. There were things on the line with this one; things he dared not even put a voice to because she hadn't. He might be foolish at times, but he wasn't a fool. This was personal to her. So by proxy, by lessons learned, it was sacred to him. He'd seen firsthand what lengths the murder of her mother stretched her to, how single-minded she would grow. These… these monsters were responsible for that, and he knew all too well that simple fact blurred the lines between justice and vengeance enough to err away from the high road.

But if all else failed what would she do? Was this piece of information going to be her last resort?

"Excuse me! But who in the hell are you two?" He hissed quietly, sharply; his unblinking eyes rapidly darting between Beckett and the door.

"Don't stall, Marcus." Beckett paused, letting her warning sink its way in before she took a moment to cast a baleful grin. "Does your memory have anything else on a man named Paul Krashinko?"

"Who?" His puzzled looked seemingly compounded.

"Paul Krashinko," she repeated. "Both of them were found murdered in Senator Burbury's home seven days ago."

"Murdered by whom?" DeWitt responded with a look of genuine interest finally making its way across his face for the first time of the day.

"A hitman," Beckett simply shrugged. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "Any idea who it might be?"

"How would I know?" he spat. "Did you miss the part where I've been in hiding since Miami Vice was on T.V.?"

"I don't know." Beckett gave a small scoff. "Maybe you would know because Senator Burbury had a messenger on his way to you?"

"Listen, I don't-"

"Maybe it's because that messenger had known ties to another member of Rathborne?" She cut in as she slammed her hand down over Burbury's file. "Does Dick Coonan ring a bell too?"

"Stop…"

"Maybe it's because you threatened to kill my partner if we didn't leave that particular messenger alone? Cut the crap and stop dodging!" Beckett hissed as she shot up from her chair.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Just stop right-"

"I am not finished!" Beckett roared.

The effect was immediate. The look in Marcus' eyes resembled less of a cocky soldier and more of a man looking upon to the angel of death. Her withering gaze, though latched deathly still on the slouched man across from them, grew colder in fury as a small, familiar piece of paper appeared in her hand.

"Read this aloud. Now."

"They died in the desert, and there..." DeWitt's voice faded away before he looked straight up to her. "What is this?"

"That was the message." Beckett said flatly.

"I don't get it." DeWitt was silent for a moment. He stared down to the note, his brows furrowing almost to the point of a scowl. "What does it mean?"

Castle frowned. He really didn't know? Okay, things were really beginning to get confusing. Why in the world would Burbury send a note that meant nothing to its intended receiver? Hell, he thought, why would Vong risk his life to keep this message alive if his own brother couldn't decipher it? Surely there was an explanation for this, something that made sense- after all, as a proud author he would be dishonoring his entire profession if he didn't at least try to tidy it up. Two people wouldn't risk their lives for a red herring. Before Beckett could reply, he quickly placed a hand on her forearm. The moment she turned to him with a set of inquisitive eyes firing off what had to be at least a few harmless threats at him, he turned to Marcus and smiled.

"Well, we were hoping you would know." Pointing down to the piece of paper, Castle continued. "Senator Burbury went through a lot of trouble and broke a few laws to get this to you."

"Then I hate to break it to you, but this means absolutely nothing to me." He replied.

"Look at in this way," Castle tapped his finger over the word 'They'. "Don't look at it as a phrase. Get that idea out of your head and focus. Think carefully about every single word, alright?"

"Okay…" DeWitt said hesitantly.

"Now," The author paused. "Does any word jump out at you? Can you connect something you remember to any word on this paper?"

Castle sat back and patiently waited for any sort of reply. For a few minutes, Marcus' eyes danced over the nearly unreadable scrawl until his cuffed hands suddenly appeared on top of the table. A single finger extended towards the paper and stopped.

"Well…" DeWitt sighed heavily. "This one, the 'Desert'. But for obvious reasons, of course."

"Please explain it," Castle said calmly.

"Well, it's where I faked my death- in Kuwait during Gulf War One."

_He died in Kuwait_; Castle desperately churned the phrase over and over in his mind. _He died in the_…

"That's it!" Castle suddenly blurted out in a high, squeaky yelp. Completely ignoring the fact he sounded like a giddy toddler, he ran his finger across the first half of the phrase. "You died in the desert- '_They died in the desert_'- Marcus, the sentence is talking about you."

Beckett looked down to the unrepentantly smiling author with wide, unexpectedly proud looking eyes. But then, DeWitt suddenly cleared his throat bringing both of their attention back to him.

"No it isn't." DeWitt shook his head then slightly shuffled in his chair. "I said _I_ died there, that says _they_. I don't know anybody else it could be talking about."

"No one?" Beckett stressed. "Was there anyone else in your unit that was killed?"

DeWitt shook his head slowly.

"Okay…" Castle muttered. "What about the other half of the phrase? Anything from them?"

"No."

"So let me get this straight," Beckett reached down and grabbed her notebook off of the floor and placed it in the center of the table. "You faked your death, you've been in hiding for two decades, and we have this message that is obviously intended for you that you know nothing about. Yet you wait for it in your childhood home- the one place even a cadet would think of to look for you- for what? Just to randomly shoot at anyone that comes your way?"

"I told you, I thought that you two were MP!" he yelled.

Without warning, Beckett slammed her hand on the table.

"No, you didn't! You gave yourself away the moment you started blowing holes through our vehicle." Planting both of her hands on the table, she leaned forward like a menacing wolf. "What was it that I heard you scream to my partner again… stay the hell away from my brother? Does that sound about right?"

Beckett didn't give him time to respond in the slightest. "You were expecting more than just a messenger that day, weren't you? You were expecting members of Rathborne because they needed to see that messenger as badly as you did."

"Did you honestly think a case of mistaken identity would be a good enough of an excuse for me to forget that you tried to_ kill_ us?" She paused and stood straight up, not even bothering to look down as her notebook fell to the floor. Castle nearly dropped his pen as he noticed a sudden hitch in her breathing accompanied by an unidentifiable chill sweeping over his skin.

"You nearly killed my partner, Marcus," her whisper was barely loud enough to even hear, but the tone- seldom had he ever heard her sound so… raw. "For that alone I will do whatever it takes to make you talk."

Castle's eyes shot up to her, half filled in concern, and half overflowing in awe. _Holy sh_-

"I'm not lying!" he exclaimed. "I am _not_ lying."

As truthful, as panicked as he sounded, his words fell on deaf ears.

"You weren't waiting for the Military Police. You were waiting for them, for Rathborne, so you could kill them."

The moment Beckett's parting shot left her lips, DeWitt practically exploded.

"So what if I fucking was!" he screamed so loudly that Castle couldn't help but flinch away. "All of Rathborne, all of them deserve it!"

That definitely got their attention. So he knew them, but he hated them. Castle momentarily paused to wonder if the feeling was mutual. They weren't exactly the types of folks that let people privy to their existence live if their body count was any indication. But why was this man before them an exception? It was safe to say that Burbury was killed for going rogue against his friends, but if the Senator knew this man was alive and well enough to free Johnny Vong from prison to find him, then why was Marcus convinced that Rathborne was coming for him as well? Was it, as the old saying goes: the enemy of his enemy was his friend? Scribbling down a haphazard copy of DeWitt's words, Castle decided to jump in the pleasant conversation.

"Do they know you're alive, Marcus?" Castle asked as calmly as possible, hoping it would settle both of the other occupants down a little.

Beckett slowly sat back down and fell back into her expectant posture. "We're waiting."

"Okay, okay!" He took a few heavy breaths before hanging his head. "No. Rathborne doesn't even know I exist as far as I know."

"Then why were you expecting them in Savannah?" Castle replied.

"Because…" Marcus sighed. "Because I received a letter."

"A letter…" The momentarily lost author repeated.

"It happened 11 days ago," he elaborated and gave a small nod, "I woke up to the sound of someone lightly knocking on the door. So, being a little precautious considering my state of mortality, I took a gun with me to the door. Up until that point, only one other person knew I was alive- my brother. All of my friends are dead, so there was no one alive that knew that I would even be at Rose Hill, and I wasn't going to take any chances. I opened it wide- the barrel of my .357 leading the way to greet whoever came calling. But no one was there, and I looked down…"

Marcus glanced back to the door for a moment before continuing. "And there, right at my feet, was a single plain white envelope. But the real shocker, I mean the thing that really dropped my stomach through my shoes, was that it was addressed to me."

"I opened it up without a second thought. And it said only one very explicit thing: Mr. DeWitt, stay where you are until I find out more. I'm sending someone your way to explain."

"That's it?" Castle waited a moment, casting his eyes between Beckett and DeWitt, waiting for the other shoe to fall. "Come on, seriously?"

"That's it." Marcus shrugged. "Look, my brother has gotten himself into a lot of very stupid things since I went underground. He came knocking one day at Rose Hill and told me that he'd made a deal with the devil and he didn't know how to get out of it."

_Finally_, Castle thought. Finally they were getting somewhere.

"He said that he ran into a guy that made him an offer to help pay for his motivational DVD's. I asked what he wanted, and Michael told me that he wanted just a small fraction of his packaged product to piggy-back drugs from Hong Kong. I told him flatly not to do it, but the stupid bastard had already agreed… How's that for irony, huh? Selling opium from a Get Rich Quick scheme."

Marcus' expression grew somber, disappointed. He shook his head slowly before continuing.

"So being the big brother that I am, I stuck my neck out of the cave so to speak. I decided to make a few anonymous calls to the Feds. You know, to take the drug game down before it could even suck my brother in more. And for a few weeks, it worked. But then, I got a call."

Then DeWitt pointed towards the picture of Alvin Burbury.

"From that guy."

"Seriously?" Castle exclaimed loudly, but he was pretty positive he heard Beckett too.

DeWitt nodded in confirmation. "He said to stay out of it, the Feds wouldn't help and to let my brother do his own thing unless I wanted some very bad things to happen to both Michael and me. I told him that he couldn't touch us, or me. And the next thing I knew? The window I was standing beside blew apart and I had a bullet passing through my shoulder."

Castle blankly stared at the man across from them, unable to form any sort of reply.

"Somehow they'd found me. How? I don't know." DeWitt looked to Beckett straight to her eyes. "But that's when I knew this wasn't some normal cartel. That's when I knew Michael had gotten himself into something no force on this Earth would get him out of alive."

"So… fast forward to a few weeks ago and before then, I hadn't heard a peep out of my brother. I figured that the 'organization' had finally caught wind of me again and was sending my brother for something, but beyond that, I don't have the foggiest idea of what went down."

"Why would you want them to think you're dead?" Castle asked, thoroughly intrigued.

"I'm not answering that." DeWitt shot back immediately.

"Would it have something to do with their opium triad?" Beckett inquired.

"How much do you know about that?"

"Plenty," Beckett nodded and motioned between her and Castle. "We took it down right before I killed Coonan, your brother's boss."

"Hold on… I need to process this." DeWitt shook his head; a look of shear disbelief covered his face. "Wait, so… how long has Coonan been dead?"

"Two years," Beckett replied automatically. "He's the only reason we even know about Rathborne's existence."

"Two years and they haven't come for your life?" DeWitt shook his head vigorously. "No, I don't believe you."

"And I don't believe you, yet here we are, breathing and talking about a drug cartel…"

"Well, I hate to break it to you, Agent," Marcus said, "but if that's all you know about them, then you two seriously don't know what kind of world you've just stepped all in."

"But your brother, Michael, certainly did. Didn't he?" Beckett shot back.

"You think peddling opium is big?" Dewitt scoffed loudly. "What Michael was doing a drop in the bucket compared to what his higher ups did and still do."

"Is that what Michael told you? Then tell us, what do they do?"

"You're asking the wrong questions here, lady." DeWitt shuffled a few of the pictures around the table.

"Am I? Beckett promptly slapped a picture of Dick Coonan down followed by the now familiar manila folder holding Burbury's call history. "Your brother went to jail because of this man. But guess who got him released? Your old pal, Burbury. He died because of the phone call he made to get Michael out of jail. So what is it, Marcus? What would make a Senator sacrifice his life for a man who was a part who was part of a now completely defunct drug trade?"

"You're wrong…" he shrugged noncommittally. "He's dead because of the friends he chose."

"He's dead because he was trying to stop this organization from doing something that involves _you_."

"The drug syndicate- the whole parade from Afghanistan to Hong Kong- was nothing more than a front." Beckett narrows her gaze as she looked squarely at the defiant man. "But what I want to know, DeWitt, is what would possess a group of people to create something as high profile as a major drug operation as a façade for something else."

"Agent Rook," Marcus drawled lazily and propped hands on the edge of the table. Bruises still pocked his jaw and forehead, a deep, jagged gash tracing the length of his right brow, flecked in blotched tinges of pale skin and dried blood- yet Castle couldn't help but note that the large man in front of him was perhaps the most relaxed one in the room. "Have you considered that you are making things too easy?"

"Easy?" Castle piped in, throwing his hands in the air. "What, pray tell, is easy about that kind of stagecraft? It's reckless to even consider, and somehow they pulled it off. That's not easy by any stretch."

"What I mean is that you're looking at it _far too rigidly_." Dewitt's words were accentuated with a small swipe of his hands as far as the chains would allow over the smooth metal surface of the table. "It's not your fault, you know. It is commonplace for even that most astute in your profession. Too often, you find a glitch, a mere sliver of something off, something being…. skewed; not to your liking or within the immovable frames you wish for your story to set so comfortably within."

"So you attack with all your might at that flaw, you dig through every modicum of logic you possess- until you find yourself a trove, a reason this flaw was born- you find a beginning to your end."

He paused, staring intently to each of them.

"But what about your means? What about all the hues of gray between your black and white?"

"I would venture that creating a drug cartel as a proxy is a specific grey area, Marcus." Beckett retorted.

"You're not_ listening_, ma'am." The large man sneered. "So you know about Afghanistan; you know that they employed my brother to sell opium up and down the northeastern seaboard… but it's not that simple- even so, you know this- and so you look for a common thread- a tether that will justify the means."

He pointed to the picture of Burbury and continued.

"Think of the road you are on. Think of all of the roads you have traveled to be here, in this room of all places, to question a man that was going to kill you for information that has nothing to do with you, nor could it be relevant to your life at all."

"It's-"

"I'm sure you're going to say it's your job, yes?" DeWitt interrupted her, and a strange playful light filled his eyes. "It's unavoidable. Right?"

"Now, why am I here? What compelled you to talk to me above all others? What is telling you that this is the most important place for you to be right now?"

"Experience." Castle said immediately.

DeWitt nodded with a small smile. "Experience, instinct- they are your guides when you're not sure which path may be better to take. Sometimes it pays off. And others? Well…"

"Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes." Castle muttered.

"Just give us a straight answer, Marcus." Beckett demanded.

"I'm impressed," He completely ignored her and turned to Castle, giving a puffy smirk with the still swollen side of his lip. "You must be quite the avid reader."

"I love my books." Castle replied with a shrug.

DeWitt nodded appreciatively. "So, you are a well-learned man, so I'm assuming to be in this line of work, you undoubtedly know your classic mysteries as well."

"You could say that," Castle nodded slightly.

"Indulge me, if you will." DeWitt glanced between both of them, "And you'll have your answers, Agent Rook."

"If this is what it will take," Beckett let out a tired, low sigh as she leaned back in her chair. "Fire away."

"Let me ask you this, then…"

"Why did Edmund Dantes go to such unimaginable lengths to have his revenge when all the power and clout to simply snuff the existence of his wrongdoers from this world was but an unrepentant command away?"

He let the question hang in the air, glancing expectantly at both of them. "Why did he create such an intricate plot if only to take his vengeance out on a handful of people?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo." Castle acknowledged. "He wanted to see them suffer."

For a moment, DeWitt looked impassively at him, and then a small, sardonic smile began to creep into his cheeks.

"Are you sure?"

A quizzical furrow shaded the author's eyes.

"Why did you fly all the way to Savannah about a murdered New York Senator?" DeWitt mused.

"To find his killer, to find Rathborne."

"The ends of one puzzle, yes." DeWitt nodded slowly. "But there is more to it than that for both of you, isn't there?"

Castle couldn't help it. He looked straight to Beckett with nothing but concern. It didn't take the eternally insightful mind of an author to venture what DeWitt's innocent question conjured within the mind of his partner. Gone was the vibrant spark in her eyes. Now, all that remained was her fury, cold and clawing for its due. For a fleeting moment, he honestly wondered if DeWitt would make it out of this room alive.

"The end of one journey is only the small, misguided first steps to another's inception. Am I right, Agent Rook?" DeWitt nodded sagely and it took all of Castle's restraint to not reach across the table and add another bruise right on top of the one Kate just applied. "And if I'm not mistaken, you are intimately aware of the truth in that little nugget of wisdom."

"I'm warning you Marcus," Castle growled. "Leave her-"

"So has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Rathborne's drug syndicate wasn't a front," Marcus casually interrupted, "but maybe… just maybe, it is a means to an end?"

"To what end?" Castle asked slowly.

And as quickly as it filled his eyes, the playful glint in Marcus DeWitt's eyes fled behind a stony gaze.

"Are you forgetting that I was never a part of this group?" Marcus leaned forward in his chair. "You might want them brought to justice, but I want them dead for what they are doing to my brother. Do you honestly think that I wouldn't have already acted upon any of them if I knew anything more? Would I have stayed under a rock for twenty years if I knew who any of them were? We're done here, Agent. "

To Castle's shock, Beckett immediately nodded in agreement.

"Okay," Beckett pushed herself away from the table and stood. "Suit yourself. But so you know, you're wrong."

Quite certain it hadn't even been close to the two hour mark of their first attempt, Castle watched curiously as she leisurely made her way back to the door. Wondering where she was taking this, he immediately stood up and followed. But, the very moment her hand grasped the door handle, she turned her head back to chained man.

"We were led to you, actually…" she said.

Looking back to the table, Castle had to bite back the urge to smile- she was _good_. Marcus had turned his head away from them like a petulant child.

"…So, if you want to thank anyone for your current predicament, thank your brother."

The effect of Beckett's slip was instant. DeWitt jerked up from his seat, fit to charge them both if the fury in the sudden roar that left him was any indication. But just as the motion of his body tilted forward like a rushing bull, the sound of chains already stretched to their limit popped with a crackling thrum, and the hulking brute nearly fell back over his chair from the shear force the floor-bound chain recoiled back to him.

"What did you do to him?" Marcus roared in the midst of struggling with his bindings.

"We didn't do anything to him," Beckett replied calmly, and to Castle's surprise, she calmly strode over to the enraged man and came to a stop just a few scant, baleful inches from his contorted face. "The reason we're here- the reason you're here, Marcus, is so we can find out who did."

"Bullshit. Where is he? Where is my brother?""

Beckett didn't move. And for a few moments, Castle looked on admittedly tense as she seemed to be putting on a withering game of chicken between her and their suspect. But then, she lifted her hand and pointed straight to the file still resting in front of Marcus.

"You see that file that you still haven't touched? Open it and you'll find out."

Without another word, Beckett back away and strode past Castle and straight to the door. She vanished into the hallway before he could even open his mouth.

But Castle stayed in his spot. As much as his feet were screaming at him to find Kate and see if she was alright, he couldn't take his pitying gaze off of DeWitt. He really didn't know what was about to hit him, and no small part of the author honestly didn't blame Kate for it either. With furrowing, deliberative eyes stilled on the file, Marcus' hand slowly crept up to the table and splayed out over its cover.

"You shouldn't have made her mad, Marcus." Castle shook his head and opened the door.

The last thing he heard before the thick steel door closed behind him was an unearthly scream of anguish leaving that last surviving member of the DeWitt family's mouth.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

**AN: **The quote about experience that Castle says is credited to Oscar Wilde. Every other quote-looking thingy is straight from my addled brain.

Oh, and 3 MORE TO GO until we're finally up to new chapters!


	27. Chasing Ghosts

**Chapter 27 – Chasing Ghosts**

Taking off his sunglasses, Jim Beckett gave hissed, lengthy sigh and took the keys out of the ignition. With an irreverent toss, he chucked the keys into his lap, absently wondering how many hours- or nights- would pass before he used them again. To his left, across a desolate street and up a barren, far-winding hill, his destination waited. San Niccolo barely peaked above the sloping sprawl of lush green arbor besetting its stonework for uncounted miles around. Yet there it was, just a whisper of it reaching out of the mountainous vista like an outstretched hand above a sweeping sea of moon-kissed green, forming a flushing hilltop's apex in all its ruined heights and ivy-covered foreboding.

It looked a fortress; its tower more a stony horn of a waking behemoth rising from a steepened crag than an antiquated hovel. Few lights speckled from its highest tower, faintly glittering behind fog-muted panes, fewer wisps of its pale hue blotting cobbled walkways far below. To any passerby it looked only a relic, a curiosity gifted for a keenly wandered eye.

Perhaps, that it why they had chosen this place- it played the part of a stage well enough. Close enough to the wanting to be accessible, far enough away however to be unreachable. All that was left to begin this play were its actors.

Giving one last rueful look down to his rental car keys- and a single ornately crafted silver key attached with them- he reached over to the passenger's seat and plunged his hand inside his only travel companion: a small black duffel bag. Within a few seconds, his lap became buried in a pile of accessories- a few pens, a small aged booklet leafing at its edges, and a single pair of binoculars.

He flipped open the booklet, ignoring a few folded newspaper clippings and tiny photographs as they slipped down the sides of his legs. Steadying the binoculars in one hand and a pen to worry in the other, he wrote down a single name on a freshly unmarked page near the booklet's middle. Setting the pen down, he retrieved a newspaper clipping that had fallen near the heel of his right foot and brought it to rest just above the name.

Once upon a time, the clipping's ink wasn't so greyed, its eye-catching bolded font not so smudged. But the years spent forgotten in the bottom of Johanna's personal cases box hadn't been so kind to it. The date just above the headliner was still legible, its innocuousness still as vivid and merciless as the day his wife had brought it home to show him before she cut it out of the front page and proudly tacked it to the refrigerator door.

_**New York Ledger**_

_**Sunday Edition**_

_**- October 12, 1997 –**_

With one long, slowly hardening look at the all too smug face pictured under the long-since faded and illegible headline, he looked back to San Niccolo through his binoculars, hoping the very same visage would soon be seen in the flesh.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"Boys, I'd like for you to meet what's left of Diane Cavanaugh, Jennifer Stewart, and Scott Murray. Well, my end of their case reports anyway."

With those words, Lanie placed three folders down onto the metal slab closest to her desk, laying them side by side. Grabbing the overhead lamp, she pulled it directly over the middle folder and flipped on the light.

Ryan pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the opposite side of the slab. "Dick Coonan's other vics, yeah?"

The medical examiner nodded once and opened the middle folder.

"So what's the deal?" Esposito asked as he shuffled next to her, making not so subtle attempt at craning over her smaller figure to glean over whatever had her so interested.

For a moment, Lanie remained silent. "Patience, honey."

_Honey_? Ryan looked over to Esposito for some explanation only to glimpse a pair of wide, averting eyes.

"This is Miss Cavanaugh…" Lanie announced as she gestured down to the folder, her hand pausing peculiarly over the photograph lying at the very top of its contents. The very first thing Ryan noticed was a hunched over figure wedged between tattered and split bags of trash, their contents strewn over the ground surrounding them, some of their contents scattered over her legs. She almost looked asleep, eerily no more a mimic of a drifter huddled amongst a canyon of shelter. Yet, even from his relative distance, he could see the darkened stains of blood. It pooled under her, blotching out parts of the vibrant yellow sundress she wore, stained her hands and what was visible of her cheek.

The young Irishman felt a lurch of sympathy rattle down his chest, wishing for a brief guilt-laden moment that he could have been the one who put a bullet through Dick Coonan's heart.

"…Dick Coonan's second known victim. Estimated T.O.D. was 6:12 AM, March 7th, 1999. She was 27."

"And this guy?" Esposito lifted open the last file labeled _Murray, Scott A._ and immediately flinched at the grisly photograph greeting his eyes. Ryan forced himself not to look.

"That is Scott Murray," Lanie flipped over the photo and leafed through a few pages filled with notes. "His estimated T.O.D. was 10:28 PM, March 7th, 1999."

"Wait, the same day?" Ryan motioned a finger between the two files as he looked up to his partner with a frown.

"You got it." Lanie nodded.

"Two hits in one day," Esposito blew out a ragged breath. "Boy, Coonan had some cajones. How did he not get caught?"

"Because as much as I hate to admit it, the man was smart." Lanie motioned them closer and she pulled out two nearly identical looking pages from each folder. "Take a look for yourself. He staged them both to look like robberies- took their jewelry, their money- hell, he even took Murray's shoes."

"Well, they'd had to have been close together for that kind of hit job, right? What about their proximity?" Ryan asked as he motioned between the two folders.

With both hands, she traced a finger up both pages.

"See here?" she said. "Both were killed in completely different jurisdictions; Miss Cavanaugh was found on the corner of 65th and Amsterdam, and Mr. Murray was found in his car on 81st and Astoria, right by LaGuardia Airport."

A look passed over his partner that he knew all too well. It was the poorly contained fury that swept over him every time bad press came out about an even worse cop.

"So no connection at all."

"To the untrained eye, no." Lanie shook her head slowly. "The thing about crimes like these is with the evidence given, even a forensic guru would have to stretch the strings to tie 'em together, so to speak. Sure, they're both knife-related C.O.D's, but while I don't think that this will surprise to either of you, sharp-force traumas holds the crown for most common injury in robberies, not guns. So the M.E's like me who picked up these cases had little to throw back to their respective investigating officers other than blade type, metal composition, and probably length."

"Isn't that enough?" Ryan mused. "I mean most of the time it is for us."

The brown-eyed woman simply smiled, almost as if some inside joke was rattling around in her mind.

"It is because for a majority of the time, you guys are fortunate enough to able to find whatever links the victims together- like a workplace, same nanny, same coffee shop- you get the idea. But these are cases that look like nothing more than two random robberies in completely different parts of the city. Now, look at both of their occupations."

Ryan craned over the Diane Cavanaugh file for a second. "She was a law intern."

"And Scott Murray here was a court documents clerk." He heard Esposito recite before giving a throaty chuckle. "That sounds like a good enough connection to me."

"It would be if they worked in the same district, _Javier_." Lanie growled with an oddly lilting dash of exasperation. "You make my head hurt sometimes, you know that, right?"

"You know, Miss Parish, I got just the remedy for th-"

"As I was saying!" Lanie suddenly screeched, and the Irishman heard the distinctive sound of his partner hissing in pain. He looked up just in time to see the dainty woman roll her eyes and cross her arms and Esposito rubbing his own. "Now, the lead investigators did what most folks would do. They saw missing cash, perimortem contusions on both victims' forearms and shoulders, blood pooling through algor mortus showed no signs of premeditated disposal of the body. They chalked these deaths up to random muggings gone wrong and let that be that."

"Seriously?" Esposito scoffed and gave a disappointed shake of his head. "Bro, the Captain would have our butts doing traffic duty if we did something like that."

"No kidding," he replied. "But like she said, can't find a connection if you're not looking for one."

"Exactly, boys." Lanie sighed and slid over to the third folder. "Now here's where it gets interesting."

Lanie opened the final folder and moved a few large photographs aside. "This here is Jennifer Stewart. C.O.D. is the same, internal kidney failure due to repeated sharp-force trauma, but… Miss Stewart was found murdered on May 21st, 1999 in Central Park."

"Wait," Esposito paused with a frown, looking to the woman beside him and back down to the file. He moved to speak only to catch his breath and scan over the items across the slab again. "You're telling me that his fourth vic was killed two and a half months later?"

"Mmhmm," Lanie replied.

"Let me guess," Ryan spoke up and tapped his finger on Jennifer Stewarts file. "She's an intern too."

"Very good, Detective." Lanie smiled slightly. "Mind telling me how you concluded that?"

"Oh, well…" Feeling confused and a little lost, Ryan stuttered and waved his hand around for a moment. "I, uh, just figured we're going on a theme…"

Biting his lip, he blinked owlishly to the medical examiner. "… Are we going on a theme?"

"We are, but I'm trying to make a point-"

"Whoa, back up!" Esposito suddenly spoke up, cutting off Lanie instantly. She opened her mouth, most likely to fire a few threats his way, but he quickly held up his hand and continued. "You said that Diane Cavanaugh was the second vic, Scott Murray was the third, and Miss Stewart here was the fourth."

"Yeah?" Lanie replied,

"Okay…" He looked to the files and back to her. "So, who's the first vic?"

Lanie grew silent. She carefully shut the three folders, placed them on top of one another and took them back to her desk.

"You got three unrelated victims buried in the cold case archives, all three of whom working in the legal industry and no physical evidence to connect them together at all." She suddenly spoke. "Six years pass and not a single soul had come forward with any information on these deaths."

Lanie looked between them for a second and then raised her arm towards the door.

"Then one day, this girl comes striding in here while I was in the middle of an autopsy, no warning, no apology. Now most cops get a little squeamish when they come in here the first time, but not this girl. Oh no, she was all fire and fury. Every speck of protocol I've ever had to learn told me to kick this little upstarts butt right out of my morgue, but then I noticed something."

"The moment she stops at the table I'm working on, all that pomp and determination just died right out of her eyes. I called to her a few times, asked her what she wanted, but she didn't say a thing, almost as if every fear that girl held her feet to the floor as tightly as she was holding her mouth shut. Then I noticed her holding a stack of worn-out files under her arm. To this day, I don't know why I took them, but that one gesture not only cracked those cases wide open…"

To Ryan's surprise, the fiery medical examiner's eyes began welling with tears.

"It also gave me my closest and most cherished friend." She said quietly. "Beckett- she was broken back then, guys. I'm never gonna forget the look she gave me when she told me why she was there."

And slowly, painfully slowly, she dipped her head to hide the evidence of her fracturing emotions. Ryan looked on helplessly, wanting to say something to console her, but with one look to his partner, he froze.

In an almost deeply private display of affection he scarcely thought he'd ever see from his partner, Esposito slowly put his arm around the smaller woman and pulled her close to his side.

"Beckett came to me that day and said she'd found something… something odd." Lanie cleared her throat, obviously embarrassed at how thick it had become. She raised her head again and continued, but she made no move to leave Esposito's embrace. "She put those three files in my hand and I immediately saw what she was talking about- three vics with the same C.O.D."

"I pointed out the same problems I showed you guys, and then I asked her how they were connected." Lanie's eyes grew soft and a chuckle rose from her lips. "Then my girl hesitated, looking as though one more whisper out of me and she was going to haul ass out of here. But something changed in her, something just crumbled somewhere inside her, and she pulls out a fourth file and drops it right on the body I just cut open…"

"And right there- in bold letters- was the name Johanna Beckett."

"She was the first vic?" Ryan guessed.

Lanie nodded again. "Killed on January 9th, 1999."

Four victims, four stewards of the law. It didn't take much of a stretch to see the connection after the fact. But…

"How did she connect them?" Ryan voiced his concern. Even to this day, he wasn't sure how she had found 3 other seemingly unrelated cases and forged them into one giant conspiracy.

"That's the most improbable part about this case," she shook her head slightly. "See, all of the lead investigators, all of the forensics in this city could dig and dig away at these cases and never come up with a credible theory. Their problem, our problem, is simple: we need physical evidence. These three murders would have never been connected through physical patterns- they could be thrown out as conjecture, a Castle-worthy kind of tale."

"Dick Coonan was a very smart killer," she said with a tinge of bitterness. "He knew how to cover up every physical trail or even throw it into chaos, he relied on our faith in what we can see and touch. But what he didn't count on was the day that a scorned young woman decided to dedicate her life to find her mother's killer. He didn't expect that the only trail that would ever connect his crimes wasn't physical at all…"

She looked to either of them, her lips curling into a knowing grin. "The connection was Kate's memory."

"I'm afraid I don't follow." Esposito muttered.

"She started her search in the 1998 cold case files, and she told me later that it took her months to find the Scott Murray case," Lanie gestured back to the desk. "She said that something about the name was familiar to her, but she couldn't quite place it. Then she found Diane Cavanaugh about four months later and that was when she remembered their connection. Even then, she told me she had kept her theory to herself, because she wanted to make sure. The day she came into my morgue was the day she found Jennifer Stewart."

"So as I was pouring over the Stewart file, she told me the reason that no investigator had linked these cases together was because, frankly, no physical evidence existed between the four of them. However, Kate remembered that each of them volunteered for a pro-bono foundation. Basically, other than her mother, not a single other person who worked with the Justice Initiative was on paper."

"The Justice Initiative?" Esposito repeated. "Was that-"

"Johanna Beckett's brainchild. See, her and Kate's father were both lawyers." Lanie confirmed. "It was set up as a volunteer only endeavor, and for a few years, it was pretty successful on both sides of the isle. Lawyers and interns from around the city could take personal time and collaborate on a whole host of cases where the plaintiff, the accused, or the convicted could not afford to gamble with a court appointed attorney. Think Robin Hood meets Perry Mason. Volunteers would come in, help wherever they could, and let that be that. No red tape, and completely hassle free."

"She came to me with these files because all she needed was confirmation that these four people died in the same way. When I concurred with her theory, she had the smoking gun she needed. So, in the end, Beckett realized that whatever had gotten her mother killed had to do with a case all four of them were working on." She concluded.

Ryan hummed, half in awe and half in respect. He'd always seen Beckett as a relentless detective, but just hearing Lanie's recounting, hearing that his boss had spent that much time carefully sliding all of these pieces together simply blew him away.

He was suddenly ripped from his thoughts when the soft, muffled sound of a ringtone rose in the air. He immediately looked towards the sound- Esposito's jacket. Abiding his curiosity, he watched on as his partner peaked down into his pocket and the look of intrigue that has been on his face fell into a tightening frown. Esposito looked up and met his eyes. And just as the Irishman was about to ask who that was, his mouth promptly snapped shut as Esposito gave him a pointed, though subtle shake of his head.

_Get back on track, _he quickly told himself, _he'll tell you later_…

"She pieced all of that together?" he blurted out, half fumbling to continue the discussion, half absently wondering how Beckett found the time to do all of this and still remain sane enough to become a detective.

"I'm honestly surprised you guys didn't know." Lanie shook her head.

"Beckett ain't exactly an open book on this case," Esposito sighed and gave her a shrug.

"What else do they have in common?" Ryan leaned over the now vacant slab. "I mean… I get that two interns and a lawyer could get mixed up in a case that would end badly. But, well… what about the third? What about Scott Murray?"

He looked from Esposito to Lanie, back and forth, again and again waiting for an explanation. None were coming; none were growing judging by the furrowing tilt of their brows.

"How does he fit in with all of this?" Ryan asked.

"That's the problem, isn't it? Fitting it together is the problem." Esposito spoke up and turned to Lanie. "Beckett knew that her mom died because of a case, but she couldn't find out which one."

The medical examiner shook her head.

"To this day, she still goes over the records of the cases her mother was working on around the time of her death and they're all dead ends."

How could _all of them_ be dead ends, he wondered with no small amount of surprise. The pieces fit together so well that any other catalyst seemed ridiculous to even broach. There had to be a reason that only her and volunteers of the Justice Initiative met Coonan's blade. Nobody goes and kills a lump of people in that profession without motive. And over the course of time from the first murder to the last? No wait, he thought- it wasn't a lump of people. It was a series of murders drawn out. If it didn't know any better, it almost seemed as if…

Then he gasped when a very odd, very Castle, thought popped into his head. What if it wasn't about the sum? He shook his head violently, desperate to clear his mind. And like a harbinger, a ghost, a picture of Beckett bled into in his thoughts, looking at the files of the four victims just like they had been- all laid out and uniform, side by side- her eyes taking them in as a _**whole**_. Was that the problem? Should these even been scrutinized as a collective case when the time of deaths spanned five months? Granted the victims' professions demanded they be seen intertwined, but did that mean that it had to apply on every level? If they were looking for their murderer, of course it would; but not if they were looking for the conception of their collective fate.

He bit his lip and looked over to his partner and Lanie, their mouths moving, yet their voices seemed drowned and distant.

What if it wasn't about the sum…? Coonan, as much as he hated the guy, was highly efficient. Anyone who had the frame of mind to actually mask their killing blow weren't lacking in the brain department. So, he mused, if the reason that these four people died resulted from one case they were working on, then why didn't Coonan wipe them all out on day one? Honestly, any self-respecting assassin wouldn't stop unless…

…unless they didn't know there was a need to continue.

"January 9th…" he whispered. Johanna, a voice roared in his head. "It started with her."

Esposito glanced to him for only a second before he brought his attention back to the woman beside him.

"It started with her!" he suddenly belted out.

The effect seemed to startle both Esposito and Lanie, who immediately looked to him in a hodgepodge of alertness and confusion.

"Dude, what's wrong with you?" Esposito hissed out.

What if Coonan didn't have a choice in the matter? What if he killed Johanna Beckett was the only target- at first? What if they, just like Coonan, only needed to start and stop at the beginning?

"Bear with me on this guys, but maybe we shouldn't be looking at these murders as a product of a whole." Ryan explained quickly as he fumbled around in his jacket for his notepad. "Think about it; think over all of the T.O.D.'s of these victims. If all of these guys were working on the same case and died because of it, then why weren't all of them killed on the same day?"

He slapped the pad down onto the slab and quickly wrote out the dates.

_January 9, 1999_

_March 7, 1999_

_March 7, 1999_

_May, 21, 1999_

"What does that look like to you, Javier?" He looked up to his partner, wide-eyed and practically bouncing with nerves. He quickly circled the first date a few times just to be sure. "Look at the dates and tell me what it looks like to you."

It only took a moment for his partner to see it, a single flash of recognition sweeping over his eyes.

"Boys, you better tell me what's going on, or so help me God, I will throttle the ever living-"

"It's a cover-up; a very messy one." Esposito interjected quickly. "They weren't killed because of a case they were working on; my bet is that they were killed because they _knew_ a case even existed."

"Huh?" was Lanie's utterly perplexed response.

"It was like you said," Esposito motioned back to the files. "The only one that was even on paper for taking part in the Justice Initiative was Johanna Beckett, right?"

"Yeah?" she replied unsurely.

"Well, look who the first vic was."

Instantly, the small brows partially covering her eyes threatened to fly through her hairline.

"You mean…"

"Her mom was killed first because whoever hired Coonan thought she was the only one with that knowledge." Esposito began. "But, something happened. Somebody caught wind of others being involved. Something scared Coonan's boss so badly that he ordered him to kill two people in one day."

"And when our evil overlord thought it was over," Ryan pointed to the final date. "Jennifer Stewart comes across the radar. They track her down and killer her too."

"So, you're saying they didn't work on the same case?"

Ryan shook his head quickly. How in the world does one explain this? "Yes and no…"

Esposito thankfully chose that moment to grab his notes and pen. After scribbling down a few lines, he poked Lanie in the shoulder to get her attention.

"Think of it like a game of Whack-A-Mole." After waiting patiently for Lanie's groan to end, he pointed down to the dates and continued. "You know how we sometimes have a double or triple homicide pop up? You know the kind: we find a body on a Monday and it is Wednesday before we come across the third and final one. This kind of scenario only happens for two reasons: a vendetta, or for silence."

"Now in all probability, Beckett has been looking at this case through the eyes of a vendetta," Ryan piped in. "It's the first place I would look too. It makes sense for the information we do have; here we have four vics all tied together through a law practice. Deductive logic points straight to each of them being involved in a case that didn't go our killers way. But…"

"The problem with that theory lies right in Johanna Beckett." Esposito finished. "If she was the second, or hell, the third person murdered then looking for a vendetta would be totally plausible."

"But it's not." Ryan added with a smile.

"You guys are starting to do that whole psychic lets-finish-each-others-thoughts thing that Beckett and Castle do." Lanie suddenly huffed. "It's cute when they do it, but it's creepy when you two-"

"Hey, we're on a roll here!" Esposito cried. "Now where was I?"

"Whack-A-Mole?" She offered tiredly.

"Ah, right. So think of it like that game. When that first mole pops up, that poor little animal gets your most decisive swing- boom, right on the melon." He smacked the slab for added flare. "But then a whole friggin' swath of those beasts start poppin' up everywhere and here you are scrambling your butt off to nail 'em all. So you keep hammering and hammering away, until there's no more furry little critters to beat down- hey, oww!"

"Say one more word and I'll smack you again!" Lanie said darkly to him as he cradled his apparently wounded arm.

"What did I do?"

"One you just compared Beckett's mama to a woodland creature, and two, you big dummy!" Lanie screeched and stressed her opinion with a few punches to his partner's arm. "You could have just said that whoever murdered them was just covering their tracks!"

Esposito promptly scoffed and flashed her a lopsided grin. "Nah, too easy."

"Anyway!" Ryan butted in. "The point is there has to be something that Johanna knew, something Coonan thought only she knew, that made her the first target and as far as they were aware, the last target."

"So it was a case that got her killed?" Lanie said, looking to both of them.

"Yes," they replied in unison.

"But it had to have been a case that only looked like she had knowledge to on the surface." Esposito said after a moment.

"It makes sense, but that's impossible," Lanie shook her head vigorously. "I can guarantee there was at least one other person that had to have known about every case she ever worked."

"Huh?" Ryan replied quietly.

"Jim, Kate's dad." Lanie explained. "He was a lawyer too… right?

The very moment the echo of Lanie's voice faded in his ears, Ryan felt the sensation of his knees losing all their strength. He looked to Esposito, staring right into the man's widening, terror-filled eyes, and suddenly it all became clear.

"_You said it's been two days since he came to find Kate, yeah?" The Irishman suddenly spoke, repeating the same question. "And how many days has it been since Senator Burbury's murder?"_

"_A week on the dot. Seven days." Esposito replied without hesitation._

"_And you said that after he asked where Kate was, he just blurted out something about Burbury?"_

"_Yeah," Esposito nodded once more. "He just said he saw it in the paper, that a Senator had been shot."_

"_You're sure?" Ryan said quietly, carefully._

"_Yeah, I'm sure."_

"_And then what happened?"_

_Esposito looked at him oddly for a moment. "I told him I'd go find out who was working the Burbury case, and then Papa Beckett seemed to get… I don't know bro. Weird- nervous, emotional."_

"_Come on man, you're a Detective." There was a pregnant pause as the young Irishman desperately thought of a way he could get around what he really wanted to ask. "What were you thinking the moment he left?"_

"_That I should stop him." Esposito replied as he averted his eyes. "I thought that he knew something about the Senator's death."_

"_So… did he?" Ryan took a few paces towards the car and stopped again. He turned back, hesitant and jilted. "Did he know?"_

As his and Esposito's conversation back at Jim Beckett's house roared mercilessly back into the forefront of his mind, Ryan honestly thought he was going to be sick. To be sure, he was positive that Kate's father had no involvement. But, there was a single, near crippling thought that couldn't be avoided now. Not anymore.

A mural of names, events- deaths- they came rushing together. They began to form in the young man's mind.

"_Dick Coonan," Esposito replied absently as he lurched the car violently to the left and sped by a string of vehicles lazily crawling up the express ramp leading back towards the city._

"_We need his autopsy records or something?"_

"_No, we need the names of his victims." He shouted over the ever growing volume of honking horns they tore passed._

"_All of them?"_

"_Papa Beckett said he knew about a connection right before he left." Esposito said quickly. "A connection of what, I don't know- but there's only one case in the world I can think of that he might know just as much of as Kate does. There's just one case that any father in his position would want to act on before their child does."_

"_Act on?" Ryan blanched. "Act on what?"_

Jim Beckett wasn't a simple matter of an overly concerned citizen. His disappearance, his vague proclamations to Esposito so many days ago was so much more than a mere warning. It was a message that they should've heeded the moment it left his lips.

"Guys?" He absently heard Lanie say.

His disappearance, his curious affinity to the news of Senator Burbury's murder, his worry over Kate's involvement, Johanna's death- it all suddenly clicked into place. He knew something- something big. Whatever it entailed, Ryan felt he couldn't possibly divine. But he was certain of one thing.

They had to find him, now more than ever.

"Guys, what's wrong?" she said a little louder. "Javier? Are you gonna answer that? Who's that calling you?"

Kate's father wasn't in hiding, and he wasn't hiding anything either. No, this was bigger than that. This was bigger than him. There was only one other person on Earth that wanted these bastards brought to just more than him. The problem with justice it seemed, however: he had decided to keep it for himself.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"Sheriff!"

Teague's head snapped up from its temporary perch of a lone bracing hand as the heavy thudding sound of Linda's footsteps lumbered closer and closer to his door.

"Sheriff!" The door flew open, revealing his winded, and oddly cheerful looking deputy. "He's here!"

Slowly removing his sore and aching elbows from his desk, he gave a long, wispy sigh and slowly turned to the young woman.

"Who's here?" Something was pecking away somewhere in his sleep-addled mind, something that demanded urgency.

"The man from D.C.," she said in a rush. "The guy that was coming down about the DeWitt shooting."

All at once, he scrambled to his feet, frantically looking over himself and cussing under his breath. How in God's name could he have fallen asleep now, of all the damned days in his life. With two awkward strides he found his reflection in the window and immediately busied his hands over every crinkle and crease in his uniform.

"He's coming in now." Linda hissed and turned towards the distant sound of a door closing. She made a flurry of motion with a single hand. "Hurry."

And no sooner as those words left her mouth, the gentle thump of a new pair of feet arrived at his door.

"Right this way, sir." He heard Linda happily stammer out to their new guest.

He turned at once, plastering on the widest smile his sore cheeks could muster. Though still groggy, still internally hoping to claw his way out of the fog his brief nap had put him under, he couldn't help but savor the strange sense of relief creeping into his thoughts.

No more DeWitt brothers.

No more Evan White.

No more bastards rising from the dead.

Help had arrived; their earlier panic and fear seeming so silly and unfounded now.

The door opened, and behind Linda was a tall man casually pacing inside. His eyes were cool and kind, brilliant and blue. His smile lingered between a sympathetic gesture and a quieted determination. His features looked weathered like the imposter who called himself Evan White, but not by ghosts or any stigmas from the past- simply age was this man's tattoo.

And God how welcome of a sight it was.

"Welcome to Chatham County," Teague gingerly began, grinning from ear to scruff flecked ear as he tumbled towards the blonde-haired man with an outstretched welcoming hand like a star-struck child. "I'm Sheriff-"

The gentle looking man held up a lone hand, halting Teague's mouth and feet mid-stride.

"There's no need for introductions, Mister Teague." The voice that coolly rolled from the man's lips sounded not his own. It was deep, cavernous and crumbling; as if the sound of thousands of brittle rocks falling through a maw in the Earth had somehow been put in a man's throat. Doing his best to not blush, Teague found himself acutely aware that he'd yet to take his eyes from the man's placating hand. His reflexes felt sluggish still, his muscles and senses lazy with fatigue.

"I can assure you that I will not be here long." The man paused, and from the corner of Teague's eye, he saw him look around the room. "The documents?"

"Documents?" Teague repeated dumbly.

The man stared at him a moment and then donned a slight smile. "I know it's been a long day for the both of you, and I apologize for coming on short notice. The documents, Mister Teague, the ones you have concerning Evan White and Marcus DeWitt. Are they here?"

_Wake up you fool_! The sheriff mentally berated himself. Shaking his head vigorously, he forced his eyes away from that stilled, helping hand. Where is it- where did I put them- he thought frantically, hoping to save a little dignity.

"Ah, there they are." The sheriff quickly scurried over to his desk, pointing down to a stack of folders that were most likely his pillow just moments before.

"That's all of them?" He heard the man ask gently.

"Yes, sir. These are the originals from the courthouse." Teague smiled broadly as he leaned across his desk and snatched them up. "Well, you've got my name, sir. The least I can do for the man who's taking this mess off my back is to know his name-"

Teague's senses were ripped down to their very nerves when a deafening crack exploded throughout the meager room. Before his eyes slammed shut in shock, he saw himself reflexively falling towards the desk as if the sonic wave from that ungodly sound propelled every fiber in his body forward. The moment he felt the weight of his body catch in the brace of his underpinned hands, he let out a rattled, heaving breath. With a quick, clumsy twist of his torso, he looked back to the source of the sound. He looked back and saw the man's other hand.

A waft of grey, a cloudy plume was rising in the shaking, distorted space above that hand. Somewhere below that lifting haze, somewhere in the direction this new hand was pointing towards, his shaken mind registered a blotch of crimson stretching outward over the floor like the rays of a rising sun. Then he saw its nexus.

The stilled form of Linda lay through the threshold of the door, curled and silent. As if instinct had finally won over his shock, he pushed himself from the desk, desperately, blindly searching for his holstered gun. With wide, dilated and frantic eyes, he looked back to the frozen profile of the gentle man, who made no move of an eye or an arm from the lifeless woman on the ground.

"Call me Hal," was the last thing Sheriff Teague heard.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

**AN: **The part about Jim Beckett also being a lawyer comes from a deleted scene that was supposed to take place in the episode Knockdown. I personally love the symmetry it gives between the stories of Jim/Johanna and Castle/Beckett so I felt really happy that I had a chance to resurrect the idea even if only for one story.

Next chapter will be coming tomorrow!


	28. A Life Worth Killing: Part I

**Chapter 28 – A Life Worth Killing: Part I**

The third time was the charm, it seemed. The very moment the shrill beeping emitted from Esposito's pocket again, Ryan broke from his stupor. Lanie's grumbling voice rose through the static between his ears and his thoughts, muttering something about a snack from her desk before she turned and walked to the other end of the room. His partner, who seemed far more in command of his mental faculties, yanked the phone out of his pocket and immediate, painful grimace flashed across his face.

"It's from the Captain," Esposito whispered while quickly stuffing his phone into his pants pocket. "We've got our search warrant for Papa Beckett's place and… He wants to meet us there."

Ryan didn't need any more elaboration. A sick feeling thickened and tumbled down his stomach; no more than a grim nod became his reply. So it was time to see just how deep Jim Beckett was burrowed into all of this. If there was any blanket of trust he had ever created with Beckett, the thing was about to be burned to a cinder.

Grabbing his notepad from the metal slab, the young detective maneuvered around their makeshift evidence board, mindful to keep his eyes away from Lanie's. They had to leave; they had to flee before she got one good look at them. The woman was a bloodhound for these slips, these slights of character, and for better or worse, secrecy drowned any moral imperative the young Irishman had cracking the seal of thoughts. But as he turned toward the door, hoping like hell all the encumbering guilt turning his feet into sludge would fade the further he got from those damnable files, a strange feeling swept over him. He glanced back to his partner and froze.

Esposito hadn't budged a muscle; his phone still rested in the smothering clench of his fisted hand. His guilt-pocked eyes still bore the same unflagging intensity- but something was different about the man. There were signs in his face of growing exertion. Some intangible strain, fettered and weighty under the scruffy plain of his jaw, grew in breadth, in force. It was almost as though his fingers had shackled themselves to the paper-littered surface, no attempt, no urgency to sever what unseen tether gripped him so.

"She's gonna kill me for not tellin' her, bro." Esposito said in a whisper thick with guilt. "… and I honestly think I'd let her."

Ryan opened his mouth to fire out a few encouraging words, but the moment he saw the look his partner gave to the still turned form of Lanie, all of the alarm bells, all of the roars of warning ceased to puttered whimpers.

"But…" The young Irishman hissed with a scant pause. His eyes fixed to the medical examiner still far beyond earshot. "You seriously want to involve her?"

To Ryan's surprise, a strange blend of incredulity and ire swept over his partner's face.

"You don't trust her with this?" Esposito's upper body, as well as his voice, seemed to swell with indignance before his eyes.

"Javier…"

"It's Lanie, bro!" was his curt retort. "She's nothing less than Beckett's frickin' sister in all but blood."

"Jav-" Ryan hissed, but not sooner as his reprimanding voice lifted to heights he'd scarcely set upon his partner before, the diminutive form of Dr. Parish appeared next to Esposito, a clumsily opened bag of chips dangling in her clutched hand, her eyes narrowed and burning.

"You know, you two dummies can't whisper worth a damn, right?"

_Crap_…

"What's this about not trusting me?" Lanie looked between the both of them… worriedly.

"We can't-" The Irishman moved a placating hand up only to jolt back not a fraction of a breath later when Lanie's free hand came slamming down on the metal slab.

"Are you gonna tell me what this is all about?" To Ryan's shock, the typical feisty cadence of the medical examiner's voice dissipated. She motioned to the folders still lined up over the metal slab, a single hand moving over the cold case files as slowly, as softly, as her voice. "And I mean the truth, boys… okay?"

_We can't do this, Javier…_

"Lanie," Javier turned to face her. Ever so slowly, he put his free hand on her shoulder and took a long, deep breath. "I need you to sit down. I'll explain as much as I'm allowed-"

"Sit down?" Lanie recoiled and promptly swatted his hand away. "I've been patient with you two. I got these files even though you two rushed in here like a herd of bulls without so much of an explanation. Oh no, I will sit down when you tell me why I've been going over the records of Dick Coonan's victims for the past hour, Javier Esposito!"

"Lanie!" Ryan shot in, quickly murmuring an apologetic grunt for his tone. "Please trust us when we say it is better if you don't know."

"Because of_ trust_ issues, I presume?" She panned, a single brow rising predatorily with each biting syllable.

"It has nothing to do with trust." Ignoring the glare radiating from his partner's eyes, he paused. Pursing his lips, he allowed his mind to hurdle through as many delicate responses as time proffered. God, what could he say that would prevent either of the two powder kegs before him from exploding?

Lanie was a lethal combination: uncanny perception, endless smarts, and a hellish drive. Her job, by its very nature, is to see things the naked, untrained eye can't. And all that he had ever witnessed from her, those virtues applied in every facet of her life. The point:

She wasn't naïve.

The moment his and Esposito's request for each of the victim's files left their mouths, Ryan had little doubt that Lanie knew exactly where this was heading. Coonan- the name was a harbinger. For them, it was a herald of helplessness; for Castle, it was a catch-22 a writer would love, but a lover would hate beyond all reason; but Lanie, for her it was a completely different monster. Since the day Dick sent his brother to her autopsy slab, anytime the name Coonan came up in conversation, all of that alchemic virtuosity swirling behind her eyes curdled with a new element.

Wrath.

It was a special brand of the most familiar deadly sin for a homicide detective. This was the kind that transcended the scores of petty imitations coming across his desk day in and day out. This one was the kind held only by a loved one, a sibling, a friend- all in one body- born only to remind its keeper they weren't there, they couldn't have been there, when they were needed most. Esposito was right- she and Kate were essentially sisters. That simple fact alone was a deal-breaker in most cases. But something was giving him pause, something ambling and ominous just beyond the clamor of his most pressing thoughts.

What if?

They didn't know what they were getting into. This thing, this case- whatever the hell it was- was bigger than them. Big enough to warrant the attention of the CIA and god knows who else. Big enough to cause Beckett to forsake her tireless crusade to protect the innocent for a trek into the unknown, and nothing- _nothing_- spelled what this meant more than her absence. This was it.

This was the end, her final jaunt through the maw of her 13-year long personal hell. And what scared Ryan more than any other thought since this whole thing exploded was that he knew Beckett wouldn't stop, not for any of them, not even if faced with certain death. And that could very well be the price she would pay. The thought wasn't melodramatic or him being paranoid at all- after all, those four files just a few feet away was proof of what happened to the folks that knew too much about this case. And knowledge, he mused ruefully, was the crux here.

The true intent of their involvement in this case was to be kept from Kate for a reason, a sound, albeit dangerous reason. Like Montgomery so grimly pointed out, knowledge had the possibility of being the difference between life and death where this investigation was concerned. Not just for Kate and Castle, but risk for every person involved. And no matter how heavy his guilt weighed over keeping the truth from Beckett and the full story from Lanie, the alternative had the chance to be unfathomably worse.

_Chance being the key word here, Kevin_, a voice sounding oddly like Jenny popped into his head.

_But what if Montgomery's warning proves right_, he mentally shot back. _What if just the act of telling Lanie the basics of this investigation sent her to the grave_? _I can't do that to her_. _I have no idea what we're up against_.

_Would that stop you if it was me in Kate's position_, rejoined the tiny voice.

Silence was his reply. He looked from the expectant examiner to his grim features marring his partner's face.

It didn't matter if he and Esposito knew and accepted the perilousness of this investigation; it was their job to march forward while others ran. That especially rang true for a friend. But Lanie… he knew that no measure of hell or high water would keep her from protecting Kate as much as possible. And now that the cat was peeking out of the proverbial bag, nothing would stop her from finding out either.

From where he stood, he was pretty positive that if his next words were as incendiary as the name of the man that caused these murder cases to exist in the first place, both he and Esposito would be calling Montgomery from ICU. But no matter what, no matter how much either of them would divulge to the M.E., she had to know the danger first. She had the right to know.

"It's not about trust, Lanie." He stressed again. "It does, however, have everything to do with making sure no one gets… hurt."

The moment the last word left his mouth, he wished he had been born with eloquence and knack for perfectly timed brevity like Castle. In the blink of an eye, Lanie's perturbed expression evaporated under an explosion of fright.

"Who would get hurt? Is this about wherever Kate and Castle are?" Her voice tightened. "Javier? Is she alright?"

Esposito stilled, his features fell into a deep, baleful grimace. "I don't know."

"_What the hell_ do mean you don't-"

"Please Lanie; just… take a seat, please." The hand that was on her shoulder only moments before shot up between the detective and the bristling examiner, stretched wide in motion and desperately placating.

Lanie promptly swatted it away. "Javier Esposito, if you say that to me one more time-"

"Lanie," Ryan interrupted calmly and then sighed. "He's telling you the truth. We don't know."

"How?"

"We aren't allowed to know, and that is exactly why telling you the truth about this is pretty hard." He paused for a moment and looked to Esposito. "We weren't supposed to know about this investigation, either."

"Wait, what? How could you not? She's your damn boss!" Lanie shrieked, her voice thickened with incredulity.

"Technically, right now she isn't." He whispered and hung his head, acutely aware that he didn't realize that words could taste so sour until that moment.

Lanie was silent for what seemed an eternity. With pendular timing, her gaze swung back and forth, from the files and right back to one of them, nary a breath left her lips.

"What's going on, guys?" She finally spoke.

"Javier." With a slow, relenting nod to his partner, he threw the dice into the wind. "It's your call."

His partner looked to him for a moment, and then a faint smile glanced over his cheek. A nearly imperceptible nod was his solemn reply.

"I'll go wait in the car." He said with a small smile. With a parting wave over to the very confused medical examiner, Ryan opened the wide metal door and slipped into the hall. Behind him, a very long conversation was about to begin.

"Have you ever met Kate's father, Lanie…?"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Castle cringed the moment a very familiar feminine voice grew to a roar somewhere down the hall to his right. Stepping away from the interrogation room door and towards the mingling chorus of shouts, he spotted Beckett and Agent Brooks some ways away; the former fuming over the latter like a waking storm.

"Lead investigator or not, do not _ever_ put me in a position like that again," Beckett leveled a hardened gaze straight to Brooks. "Victims aren't carrots to dangle over another victim's head- and that man in there is as much a victim as his brother was!"

"Victim!" Brooks barked breathlessly with a look of incredulity blaring out his eyes. He pointed back to the interrogation room with a single jab of his finger. "You think that man in there is a damned victim? Do I need to remind you, Detective Beckett, he tried to kill you?"

"Do I need to remind you, Agent Brooks, that he said it was a case of mistaken identity?" Beckett roared back while miming his flagrant gesture.

"And you believe him?" Agent Brooks spat.

"Listen!" Beckett snapped. "Listen to that sound."

Castle gave a low sigh. He knew exactly what Beckett was implying- even from this distance, nearly the full length of the long corridor- he could still hear the ever-hoarsened cries and unintelligible curses leaving Marcus in furious, gut-piercing clarity.

"That is the sound of a man who just lost a loved one!" Beckett hissed with a growing iciness. "That is _not_ the sound of a criminal."

"He's a damned liar, and you-"

The distant sound of a metal door slamming shut cut the shouting match to a jarring halt. Then the stamping and storming of a single pair of feet met the author's ears, growing in pace and pitch. A young man burst into view from around the hallway's corner in the midst of a wobbly slide, a single arm stretched high above his head waving frantically about. Closer and closer the figure drew, and Castle immediately noticed a small, rectangular object in his jittering grasp.

Brooks' body twisted to meet the new arrival. Beckett turned as well, though not before Castle caught one last withering glare from her burning holes into the elder agent's profile.

"This conversation isn't over." She growled and then turned her full attention to the approaching figure.

"Sir!" The figure shouted as he scurried up the hallway. "Agent Brooks, sir!"

Behind Castle, the observation room door flew open. Oliver's deep voice boomed through the hall. "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"It's fine Oliver, I sent for him." Brooks said in a gruff tone. "Get back in there and make sure that bastard doesn't do anything stupid."

"Sir, yes sir." The ogre called back, and not a moment later, Castle heard the O.R. door close quietly behind him.

"Agent Brooks, sir!" the young, incredibly winded man came to a skidding halt before them. As he bent over, bracing himself with one hand on a knee, his other hand shot up, feebly waving the object towards Brooks. "I brought… brought it."

_Brought what_? Castle thought feverishly. His eyes immediately darted up to the waving object, hoping to catch a better glimpse as it wobbled and brushed through the gloom of the single dim light a few feet above it. The moment a piece of it glanced the yellowy light, he knew exactly what the object was. Though turned dull and near featureless by the light's sickly hue, its darkened crimson, slightly shimmering front was unmistakable- leather, old and finely tanned leather. It was a book, quite a thick looking one at that.

Perhaps it was the blistering pace he and Beckett had been running on for what seemed ages, or his thoughts had become so centered on the enigmatic man still bawling his eyes out in the interrogation room, but no matter how much he searched his memory for some sort of reference, nothing popped. He hadn't the foggiest idea what was inside that thing. He turned to Brooks for some sort of indication, but the bemused expression on the grey haired man didn't change.

"Are you forgetting something, Agent?" Brooks said slowly.

"Sir?" The young man craned his head up, which looked like it was taking quite a bit of effort.

Brooks let out a long sigh. "Since my secretary has clearly forgotten his formalities, I'll make the introduction. Detective Beckett, Mr. Castle, this is Agent Anthony Thatcher."

"Sor… sorry, sir. Sirs! Sirs and Madame I mean! Sirs and Madame…" The young man babbled quickly. "But sir… the book?"

"Don't hand it to me, son." Brooks gave a dismissive gesture over to Beckett. "Give it to them."

Utterly confused, Castle cautiously held out his hand. The young agent quickly pushed the book into his grasp- and the fluid line of gold instantly caught the author's eye- scrawled across the front of the book in perfect calligraphy, it read: _Personal Accountings_. It was-

"-Senator Burbury's ledger." Beckett quietly voiced his thought.

He looked up to Brooks for confirmation, but the man was already embroiled in a fierce volley of whispers and hissed browbeating with his underling. With a small shrug, he went to look back to the ledger, but a strange feeling prickled up his spine. He looked back to the young man; a perky looking fellow that looked like he was aiming to be a younger, blonder, carbon copy of his boss from the cut of hair right down to the paisley speckled tie tucked neatly beneath his tailored vest. Perhaps it was the many hours he'd spent alongside Beckett interrogating the best liars New York had to offer, or maybe the years of pouring over psychoanalytic profiling techniques for research, but something wasn't adding up concerning their newest arrival.

Throughout his whispered replies, not once did the young man's eyes meet the steely grey of his boss. Now that wasn't anything out of the ordinary as far as Castle was concerned. Timidity around a boss, particularly one as hardened as Brooks, would certainly test the mettle of anyone's confidence. But this man, Thatcher, simply radiated idol worship- eagerness to please, to be noticed, hell, to revel just being in the same vicinity as their hero. That kind of posturing just wasn't in the man before him; instead, all he saw was meekness, subservience- eyes thick with guilt and nervous feet one tap away from springing a retreat.

"Unless you've acquired the gift of clairvoyance in the last few seconds, Castle, I think it would be more productive for us if you opened the book."

"Oh, right, right."

Drawing in a long, deep breath, he gave a soft nod and opened the book. He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he noted a slight ache pulsing in his brow from being furrowed so tightly, or his eyes straining yet stilled on the gibberish written before him. None of it made sense, absolutely none of it.

"These names, dates; they're all over the place; no chronology, no categorical context." Castle mumbled somewhat hesitantly, his eyes roving up and down the dozens upon dozens of names as though they were processing and tracing intangible lines to each new identity to no avail. It was as any self-respecting writer would concur, a complete and total mess. A more accurate description was a little hard for the author to even formulate. Each page he flipped over was the same: written in simple print; three clear columns spanning their length: a litany of names, then shorthand dates, and finally, varying sums of money lining the last column.

He craned down further to the paper almost to the point that his nose was touching it. "There's no sequence to this. It looks more like a reminder for a betting pool than an account log."

"Any recognizable names?" Beckett said.

"Oh, yeah." Castle gave a low whistle. "Plenty."

"Who?" Beckett replied eagerly. "Which ones?"

He suddenly felt a familiar warmth press against his side, and then a hint of Beckett's face slipped into the corner of his vision. Her long brown hair hung over the far right page as she craned further and further over the book, completely obscuring it from his view- not that he minded in the least. For a moment, he wondered how hard it would be to convince her to look at all evidence this way.

"So where's the link?" Beckett suddenly spoke before straightening back up and turning her focus to Brooks.

"The link?" The agent repeated.

Beckett nodded immediately. "You said on the day you met us that you had found something in Burbury's desk that linked him to Rathborne."

"Is this that 'something' you were talking about?" Castle continued for her.

"It is," was all that the agent said.

"…Well?" Beckett said slowly.

"Go to the fourth page, that's where the first set is- check lines 5." Brooks drawled.

Castle's hand was already darting toward to fuzzy edge of the page to give it a hasty flip when one of Beckett's smaller hands appeared in a flash. And no sooner as she flipped over the page, his eyes narrowed in on the most glaring part. There, highlighted in vibrant red was the link Brooks had found.

_**Dick Coonan**_**, **_**AOI Foundation Amount Given TBD**_

"Coonan…" Beckett sighed deeply. "Why doesn't this surprise me."

Castle's focus inched closer to the first line Coonan appeared on. "Hey, Agent Brooks? Did you highlight his name?"

Brooks looked away from his jabbering secretary and shook his head. "No, that's how we found them."

"Them?" Beckett echoed. "You mean-"

"Turn the page." Brooks motioned to the ledger before turning back to Thatcher.

Castle quickly complied, and not a moment later, he saw exactly what Brooks was referring to. Six lines down, Coonan's name appeared again. The author traced his name across to the second column. It was as if the room began to slowly turn around him, and a wave of dizziness as what he saw. There wasn't just one date across from Coonan's name, no. There was a half dozen of them, but just a few caught his eyes. Just a few were highlighted in same disgusting blood red.

**5/17/95 $261,991**

**7/12/98 $261,991**

"He's been dealing with Coonan since 1995," Castle shook his head in disbelief. "How does somebody- wait, not just somebody. How in the world does a United States Senator, who has lived under the unblinking eye of the media for 17 years get away with having ties to a drug lord?"

Beckett simply looked to him with a hardened gaze still on her face. "Simple. He had people higher up than him shutting that eye for him."

"Higher… wait, higher?" Castle sputtered as his eyes shot back down to the log book. "You mean-"

"No, Castle." Beckett rolled her eyes and snatched the book from him.

"Good," he muttered in an oddly tight voice. "I so don't want to be there to serve that arrest warrant."

"Come on, Rick, you're a writer." She said as she flipped a few pages, her eyes and lone finger speeding down page after page. "You know as well as I do that you don't need to be a politician to be as powerful as one."

"Point taken, but... May I?" Castle took the ledger back and fanned through the rest of the pages, trying his best to hide his shock at seeing every single page filled to their very brim. He closed the book for a moment, mindful to keep the tip of a finger wedging apart the page where Coonan's name first appeared, and turned it to its side. "Look at this thing; it's as thick as one of my books. There must be hundreds- thousands- of names and connections in here: politicians, entertainers, constituents, lobbying firms, donors…"

"And no discernible way to find out who are naughty or nice." She finished and gave a sigh.

"Precisely."

Beckett wordlessly motioned for the ledger, to which Castle immediately relented. As she began leafing through the book, he watched on patiently, hoping she would be able to find some semblance of a lead.

"In any event," he said after a few moments, "I have to hand it to Burbury. I honestly didn't know he was this wealthy."

Her honey brown eyes shifted to him for a moment before returning to her current page. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he said while giving the stubble on his chin a quick scratch. "Look at the amounts he was giving Coonan. A quarter of a million dollars multiple times over? I don't know how rich he was before he took office, but that is a lot of cash even by my standards."

"Sure it is, Castle." she quipped.

"No, I'm serious." Castle tapped his finger on the closest page. "I know it doesn't sound like he's breaking the bank, even if you add up every single payment to Coonan. Look over it a little more though, and I promise you that you will find dozens and dozens more charities."

After a moment, he heard a sound that was something between a growl and a panned agreement rumble up her throat. "There are two other charities on this page alone, each with much higher donations than his to Coonan's foundation. Okay, so Burbury was a philanthropist."

"Quite, but how did he afford to be one?" Castle paused for a moment, letting the question hang in the air. "We're talking tens of millions of dollars over a 17 year span."

"Agent Brooks," Beckett called out. When the surly man once again looked back to them, she motioned down to the logs. "What year did Senator Burbury get elected to the Senate?"

"1998. He served as a State Senator for two years prior to that."

"So…" she flipped back to the beginning of the ledger. "This log book was started in 1994. Sadly, I don't think that little tidbit will be useful with DeWitt."

"Well, it might…" Castle mused. "Bringing up Burbury's name certainly got DeWitt's motor running.

"Ah," Kate shook her head. "That's right. Not to mention he looked a bit shocked that Burbury was a Senator…"

"… So the next logical step is to assume that…" He began, unable to suppress the mirthful warmth fluttering in his chest when he saw the sudden burst of realization sparkle in her eyes.

"… He knew Burbury before he became a politician." They said in unison.

For a moment, Beckett stared at him a moment with an approving smile. As he began to return a glowing grin of his own in kind, to his confusion, her eyes seemed to widen for the briefest of moments. She suddenly pursed her lips and swiveled her entire face back to the ledger. "So… um, he might know what circles Burbury ran in so that we could narrow the names in here down a little.

"Do you think Burbury might have had his hands in the bad man's cookie jar for that long?" Castle asked with a slight tilt of his head.

"I'll choose to ignore the obvious innuendo there and just say no." Beckett flipped a few dozen pages over. "But, I would wager that it might be a good place to start when looking into his background."

Castle was quite content in allowing a small, lopsided grin dance up the scruffy curve of his cheek at her retort. With all gravity aside, her ability to maintain a little humor even in the midst of something as dark as this case never ceased to amaze him.

"That's strange…" Beckett suddenly murmured.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Castle looked at her for a moment and tried to trace the line of her focus down to whatever had given her pause.

"Did you find something?" He whispered as he looked to the page she was most certainly looking at, but nothing was standing out.

"Oh, nothing… I don't know." Her reply came hesitantly. "I'm just trying to figure something out. Coonan's name is all over this thing- I think I've seen his name three more times on the last two pages alone…"

"But?" Castle supplied.

"Well... the rest aren't highlighted." She explained as her eyes shifted to his. "Only his first two payments to Coonan were."

The author looked down to the ledger and his eyes immediately zeroed in on Coonan, and sure enough, it was completely untouched.

"Hmm," he paused for a moment. "Are the ones that aren't highlighted payments to Coonan as well, or are they from Coonan to him?"

Her finger traced over to the very end of one of the lines and tapped a few times on a barely visible acronym.

"AP; must be amount paid." She flipped back to the page where Coonan first appeared and immediately pointed out the same two letters right beside the six figure amount. "And the same thing here."

Nodding in agreement, he forced his eyes to look over the rest of the page again. It only took a second to find the acronyms opposite beside another set of numbers and a completely different name. "And here's an 'AR'. I guess that pretty much means he was only paying Coonan."

"I wonder what makes these so special…" She mused with a curious lilt in her voice. "These dates- 1995 and 1998- that's just so…"

"Random?" He supplied.

"I wouldn't say that," she replied. "It only seems random because we don't have the entire story…"

After a moment of silence, Castle cleared his throat.

"What?" A single inquisitive brow rose up.

"Careful, Detective," he whispered in her ear. "You're beginning to sound like me."

"Focus, Castle." She shot back and followed it with a quick elbow to his side. "Think about it for a second. Brooks said that Burbury was elected a State Senator in 1996 and a U.S. Senator in 1998, so…"

"You think that's their connection? His election?" He replied as quietly as he could and gave a low whistle. "You think Burbury was a Manchurian Candidate?"

Beckett opened her mouth to reply but promptly slammed it shut. He peered forward and the moment he looked in her eyes he knew exactly what she thought, or rather, what she had absolutely no intention of saying aloud, not in front of mixed company anyway. Castle could only bite his tongue and silently agree- the thought was more than troubling, it was nightmarish in its ramifications.

It explained the motive behind Burbury's murder well enough- when a puppet is no longer needed, its strings are simply… cut. Then that could only mean the people that the Senator was a façade for were much more powerful than he would ever be. The thought alone sent a chill clambering its way up his spine. But why did he die now? What did the Senator do to his masters?

As Beckett returned to scouring over page after page, the writer allowed his mind to mull a little. Why those dates? Why weren't the others highlighted? Obviously it implied a certain amount of significance to those particular payments, but what? Those dates weren't anywhere near the point in time Coonan was murdering people…

Right?

Castle gave a subtle shake of his head, disposing the thought. The entirety of the CIA had their hands on this book for days; they would have surely thought the same thing when checking into any dates that stood out like this, particularly regarding the dealings of a Senator with a man of Coonan's true profession. So it stood to the writer's reasoning that Brooks would have told them if those dates were linked to any cold cases.

So what could they mean? Briberies? Kickbacks? Those didn't fit either. Trying a different approach, Castle recalled Brooks' words; that this book clearly implicated Burbury was a card-carrying member of Rathborne. So, that link was certainly implied with Coonan, but it only implied a history between the two. That's it. Every possible scenario for that monster's name to even be in this book defied any logical explanation he could conjure. If Coonan was his only known link to Rathborne, why was this puppet still needed long after Coonan died? Did they still have a use for him until recently?

Then a thought occurred to him.

"Beckett?" He gave her a nudge with his shoulder.

"Yeah." She said, not taking her eyes from her task.

"Are there any other names in there highlighted?"

With a gasp and a mumbled reply that sounded oddly close to 'good one', Beckett began to fan through the ledger at eye-popping speed.

"I'm thinking that if we find any others highlighted, those dates might-"

"-Give us a better idea of what it means; gotcha." She finished for him. Just a few seconds later, her eyes grew wide. "Ah! Here's a new… name…"

"Who?" He said excitedly, his eyes darting from her profiled face to the ledger in rapid succession. "Who is it?"

No sooner as those words left his lips, the smile dancing across his face slowly died away. Her hands, still cradling the book began to shake- harder and harder.

"Beckett?" He said cautiously.

Her ironclad grasp on the ledger violently recoiled as though the book itself had burst into flames, sending it crashing to the ground with a resonating thud.

"Kate?" Castle's eyes shot down to the discarded book for what seemed only a scant moment. His trail of vision swept down to the still open-faced ledger. He bent down, his eyes straining feverishly to the lone line of red streaking its way across the left page.

"Kate, what's the-"When he looked back up, Beckett was already in a headlong sprint, the percussive blasts of her heels growing softer and softer in his ears as she rounded the corner of the hall. "Kate!"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was sure he heard Brooks shouting as well. Yet, the words never registered. As he took off after her, there was only one thing going through the author's mind.

_John… Raglan? Who in the hell is John Raglan?_

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

AN: As a side note, in the original outline of this story, this chapter was slated to be the point where this story _most definitely_ earned its M rating ;)

Also a special thanks to everyone leaving some really awesome questions and theories in your reviews! Next chapter will be coming up hopefully tomorrow!


	29. A Life Worth Killing: Part II

**Chapter 29 – A Life Worth Killing Part II**

Richard Castle was not, by any stretch, the fastest man in the world. Sure, the occasional hungry guard dog and light-footed perp ensured he had a bit of spring in his step. He knew the tempered strength in his muscles could hold their own if a truly dire situation necessitated their fullest measure. Yet here, absently registering light after dingy light slipping overhead- still managing to catch more than just a cast of his shadow as he hurtled through their steadily waning path- there had scarcely ever been a moment before this where his version of speed felt as languid as molasses.

His haste felt irrational, his thoughts dwindling down a singular name, her name, even more so. She wasn't in danger; it wasn't as if the devil himself was waiting beyond the building's front door. But somewhere between the look of utter horror that crossed Beckett's face scant seconds before she took off, and the very moment the door leading to the parking lot came into his sight, the sensation of his feet pounding over the linoleum passing in a blur beneath him simply ceased to reach his nerves.

Nothing- absolutely nothing in all the days that have passed since they met- had there ever been an event so seismic that it caused her to flee for the nearest exist midway through an interrogation. That thought alone was enough to cause the author a great deal of panic, to get his feet kicking just a little faster. That tiny little box currently housing Marcus DeWitt was nothing short of sacred ground to her, a four-walled limbo between innocence and vengeance- and never did she leave unfinished.

For a brief moment the same fear normally pulsing up and down his spine during the more harrowing arrests they have made reared its head. Worry, dread, terror- every single emotion he never dared to vocalize to her- it possessed him. It numbed every other thought, silenced every other matter until there was only the mantra of her name pounding in his ears, until all that carried him closer to his quarry was the determination to have her at arm's length again.

The heel of his right foot was smashing into the wide levered bar of the door before he realized what he was doing, and somewhere in the violent screech of ancient hinges and rusted metal scraping over concrete, his ears picked up a distant thud. Through the sudden blast of hazy sunlight and kicked up dust, there he caught a faint figure some ways in the lot bounding from car to car. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his foot, he took a few tentative steps forward, waving his arms in front of his face in some vain hope it would thin the whitewash of light and the choking, sand-laden air. A car door slammed shut, and for a moment, he thought he was too late. He froze where he stood, waiting for the sound of an engine roaring to life, waiting for the burn of powerlessness to envelope him.

But his deep, ragged sighs grew smaller, quieter, and no sound ever came to drown them out. His first step was soft against the crunchy gravel; his next, to his utter relief, was muted by a very irate, very loud feminine growl. The dust began to clear, and there she stood, kicking the loose gravel all around her and belting out a string of curses.

"Beckett!" He shouted as he rushed to the center of the lot. He expected her to say something the moment he was behind her, but she continued grumbling, her arms quaking all the way down to her steadily tightening, paling fists.

His arrival didn't even make her flinch.

_What the hell is going on_? His mind flew dozens of ways at once, dissecting every movement, scrutinizing every subtle mannerism of hers that he'd come to know as intimately as his own for some glitch- some sliver of peculiarity.

But that was not going to work. Standing before him was not an uncompromising cool and calm woman who stared down dragons for kicks; before him was a being in chaos.

"Hey…" he started, yet quick to wrangle in both his tongue and the arm slowly, unconsciously reaching for her. What could he possibly say that wouldn't come across as depressingly redundant? Kate, are you alright? Did something upset you? No. Hell no. He shook his head in disgust at his own inability to find the right words at a moment when he could actually use them for a constructive reason. He was a writer for crying out loud. Closing his eyes for a moment, his scoured for something to say, anything that would get her talking. Suddenly, the page with a single blood red highlight flickered like a waking flame through the fog of his panic.

"Beckett," he spoke carefully. "Who is John Raglan?"

Silence.

Worried even more, he stepped to the side, craning his head more and more to catch a glimpse of her face. If her voice wasn't going to tell him, he thought, her eyes most certainly would. But the moment just a faint hint of her trembling lips came into view, one of her arms suddenly shot out, impacting with his chest, sending him staggering back a few steps.

"No." Anger beyond what she had ever displayed rattled her voice. "Go back inside, Castle."

His brows furrowed. Was she serious? "Tell me what's going on, Kate."

"It's not your concern!" she said in a clipped voice.

"What? The hell it isn't." He shot back without a hint of hesitation, finding himself acutely aware and somewhat caught off-guard by the pang of hurt from her words. "Do you have any idea how I… Kate, one second we're going over possible leads and suddenly you ran away from that book like you just figured out you were playing hot potato with a grenade. Don't even think I'm going to let that go without a reason."

A gasp left her immediately.

"God… the interrogation. DeWitt needs to be… No. I- I can't go back in there." She began shaking her head sharply, pursing her lips into a thin unreadable line as she back away from him pace by pace. "I have to go."

She forgot about the interrogation? How in the…

"But-"

"No, Rick." She cut him off. "You have to stay here."

"Stay here, and what- worry myself to an early grave? I have never seen you like this, and it will be a cold day in hell before I keep my mouth shut without knowing why."

He marched forward until he was inches from her shoulder.

"You don't leave mid-interrogation. Others give up on a mess like DeWitt, but not you. That is not you." he said sharply and let his words hang between them. "…Who is John Raglan, Kate?"

"I'm not giving up." The indignance in her voice sharpened. Another deflection.

He looked over her, soaking in every detail he could. This fire, this rage practically roiling out of her in waves, was not the sort she exhibited when a case hit a dead end, or when a suspect alibied out. This was a sudden explosion from a deep and terrible place inside her heart. A place, he feared, Kate kept closed for a reason.

"Answer my question."

"If…" She shook her head violently. "If I told you, then you would want to leave with me."

"And that's supposed to make me shrug this off?" The writer bit his lip. Was this really happening? Were they honestly fighting over this? Frustration was beginning to take hold. If she thought that excuse was going to somehow alleviate the tension bubbling between them, to get him to leave her alone, she was positively insane. "I can't help if I don't know what you're thinking."

"Castle," a familiar hint of exasperation lilted her voice. "The best way you can help right now is to get your butt back in there and keep the interrogation moving. We need his story, and you being out here doesn't accomplish that."

He stared at her for what seemed like ages. This wasn't making sense, none at all. _Keep it together_, he told himself.

"Then you might as well join me." He said lowly, forcefully. "Join me back in there or tell me what's going on. It's your choice."

"Rick, just…" Beckett turned even further away and took a few steps towards the line of vehicles. "Just get back in there and keep him talking, okay? Keep him talking."

He considered himself a very perceptive man, be it dealing with a baffling murder or his baffling mother. There always came a moment, an intuitive little whisper in his head that never failed in letting him know that something was wrong. When the last words out of Beckett's mouth seemed on the verge of crumbling into growl again, he knew in that instant that he should force her to face him. He should be demanding to know what had sent her quieted speculations into a furious dash for the exit.

That, however, would be a colossal mistake. That much was obvious from her guarded posture to her near compulsive, deflective repartees. She didn't want him to know, and to press any further would belie a severe lapse in value of his own life.

"You only have one more hour with him until they cart him off to some deep, dark hole, Rick." She continued, one of her hands gestured weakly towards one of the SUVs. "When that happens, we're back to scraps."

"You know we won't be, and for some reason I'm getting the feeling that is exactly why we're standing out here."

_Okay_, maybe he valued hers a little more…

"Castle…" Her tone was one of palpable warning- stop- back off, and there won't be bloodshed. He huffed, half in exasperation, half in amusement. Clearly she was also forgetting who she was talking to and how he would take the threat of her inflicting bodily harm. Threat, warning- friendly suggestion- what was the difference?

"You know him." He ventured. "Is that it?"

She didn't say a word. His only confirmation came from a slight bow of her head, a ghost of a nod.

"That's all you're going to give me?" He paused. "We have a living affiliation to Rathborne chained to a chair in there, and you want to leave?"

"Go back inside, Castle."

_Hell. No_.

"Do you honestly expect me to go back in there and pick the interrogation right back up where we left off when you're out here on the verge of detonating?" He shot back, his control eroding faster than he cared to admit.

He hoped the very moment the words left his mouth that something would give, somewhere on that impregnable wall of armor she had encased herself in would fracture. Her reaction didn't disappoint.

"Detonating? What do you think will happen if I do go back in there, Castle?" Fury raged back into her voice. "Do you think I'll magically be all sunshine and rainbows the moment I close the IR door behind me? This isn't a damn story of yours and I am not a fucking robot!"

That was it. He could take her anger; he could take pretty much anything she could throw at him. But the bitter mockery, the condescending tone, that wasn't Kate. That sent all the frustration that had been building up into every nerve in his body.

"You're right, you're absolutely right. The woman I write about, the one that _I know_ doesn't run. The woman I know might be a little guarded, but she doesn't shut me out completely over a name in a book-"

Without warning, she turned to face him, revealing a visage that immediately sliced through his anger and didn't stop its crippling descent until it was well passed his cloven heart.

Her cheeks were ashen, her dark crimson lips curled and quivering. But there were no tracks of tears gliding over her skin, no hint of agony in her stormy eyes. Her face flew to within inches of his. She was stripped bare, every single emotion rent of her armor, her walls, as naked and as transparent as a ghost. Staring back at him, in all her terrible fury, wasn't the woman who brought the worst that New York had to offer to its knees, no. Instead it was a girl, a lonely, torn and tired girl- one who had just lost her mother, one whose only desire was vengeance. She was lost. Completely and blissfully lost.

"I. Am. Emotionally. Compromised, Castle!"

Each word exploded from her lips, flashed like lightning in her watery eyes as sharply and as stabbing as the pained expression that soon followed.

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They were wasting time.

Minutes had passed since the female detective had stormed away. He was losing precious time, away from the box, away from more _answers_. Surely they knew that. Yet still, no sound of the distant entrance creaking to life filtered down the bow-legged hall. Was this a game to them, a thought hummed and bristled. Did they have any idea how much hell Knox was going to give him for even ceding this much time to a badge and a writer? He had given them time and space for whatever in god's creation had caused her to flee to be resolved; clearly, they needed more.

Now they were wasting his time- moments he would devour half of hell to have with what they knew; or rather, what that damned Senator thought they knew. Didn't they understand how broad a cusp upon which they stood? A writer and a detective- crafts of the uncannily perceptive- and they could not see how much he needed this, how… how long he's had to wait for this moment to come?

His steely grey eyes slid below the rims of his sunglasses, narrowing down to the ledger in unmitigated disdain. It was there, everything that made him the pitiable vagabond of the agency, somewhere hidden and garbled in the Senator's scribbling. His team had a week with that blasted book, seven sleepless days to dig through line and page for a glimmer of precious quarry. They found none. Nothing that shed any light on why the Senator had died, nothing beyond the name of a dead opium kingpin to even hint at why a man's final wish on this Earth was to bring in two time-wasting gumshoes to end what he couldn't with fourteen years into his quest.

It was bad enough when Director Westmoreland gave him the order to go straight to the sidelines, to partake in this babysitting mission. But he swallowed his pride; he passed the torch for king and country as they say. Any step forward was a necessary step forward, even if he was no longer lording over these secrets like a king on his lofty, lonely throne. But to have these two_ sit_ on information he just knew was in there, to watch them squander the day as magnificently as he _had_ was too much.

This wasn't what he left Virginia- and them- for. Enough was enough.

"Agent Brooks sir, about the messages from Savannah…"

He hadn't made it two steps beyond the crumpled ledger when the boy had stopped him.

"Do you really want to bring that up now, Thatcher?" He left absolutely no room in his tone for anything but foreboding.

The rookie was silent for just a moment.

"He sounded really… I don't know. Frightened."

_Of course he did_, Brooks gave a scoff and his pace to the door quickened. The man was neck deep in a murder and the discovery of a psychotic Rumpelstiltskin taking up residence in his town. Things were getting hairy, each moment that passed since the Senator's death was an inch of time drawing everyone involved closer and closer to a… resolution.

He should be scared, the elderly man thought. If he knew what was at stake, he should be drowning in it. That was something the rookie didn't need to know as well.

"Did you take a message, son?"

"Oh… well." The boy began to stutter.

"Well, what Agent?"

"He didn't want to leave it with me, sir." His words came rushed, tightened. "He said he would only speak with you."

"Then what do we pay you for?" He snapped back, a pang of irritation rattled through his shoulder when his stride stuttered for a moment.

"…Sir?"

The kind of verbal salvo only a former marine could give was roaring up his throat. But the moment he felt a vibration against his chest, Nathaniel Brooks silently swore to any deity with an open ear that he would behave if just for a second, one tiny little second, no more interruptions would impede his stride.

He promptly ignored it.

"Agent Brooks?" A slithery meekness in his underlings voice reeked of idol worship. "Your phone, sir?"

"Not now, son."

"But sir, I think it's him again."

The door was a few paces away when the phone vibrated again.

"Sir…" Thatcher's scurrying came to a halt a hair's breadth behind him. He was sure the rookie was clucking again about missed phone calls like some nervous hen. But he didn't hear it, he didn't feel it. All he knew was the steady ticking of his heart, the rhythmic vibration against his chest. Time was fleeting, time was slipping away.

Enough was enough…

When his hand reached the door, his other slipped into his jacket pocket and clenched around his phone. His eyes flew down to its wide glossy face the moment it came into view.

PRIVATE NUMBER - AREA CODE 912

His thumb hovered over the answer button, intent for some resolution, for his underling to close his mouth for just a few minutes.

Beyond the door, a new sound rushed into his ears- the roaring of a furious woman.

He shook his head. Time was slipping away.

Somewhere between his pace taking him through the threshold of the door and the phone disappearing back into his pocket, the vibrations stopped.

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Compromised.

The word belonged in spy stories, muddled in the belly of extraordinary tales; not here, not while frozen under Beckett's deathly glare in the middle of an ordinary graveled lot. It was meant for the moment when certain doom was about to meet the hero, the literary guillotine for when a flaw broke wide. It connoted betrayal of the worst kind, to be caught unaware, suspended somewhere in between a towering climax and abyssal collapse.

Did the name John Raglan encompass all of that to her?

Was that what had just occurred? He shook the thought from his head almost instantly. The mere implication of such a thing warring inside her was nothing short of blasphemy where he was concerned. Compromise meant, in no simple term, vulnerability. And that did not belong in the same sentence as Kate Beckett.

They were tired, beaten and weary. That had to be what brought that word out of her, he surmised. They had been locked in a headlong sprint for a week now with little rest, less food, and no help. Something was bound to fissure. The magnitude of emotions he felt when his eyes fell upon Beckett's unconscious form at Rose Hill was bound to roar back from one of them. But that inner powder keg was supposed to be within him- knowing the gravity of their journey, knowing the ultimate reason that she was here, and knowing there was no turning back for her. That was his encumbered load to carry if it made just one second of her day a little lighter. For her to look ever forward, ever vigilant; so in the quiet hope that she would live through this would not be in vain.

But it was there, the hoarsened pitch in her uncharacteristic admission saturated his nerves with it until his feeble denial turn to immutable sympathy to what had just occurred. Compromised. It was as if by sheer force of will alone she uttered the word. And the very moment her lips drew in to a quivering, watery seal, all of the fight she had, all of the woman he did not recognize before him, exhausted in one heaving, ragged sigh..

Staring back at him through tired, listless eyes was nothing less than a picture of upended agony. And no mess of words, no gesture the author had honed over a life surrounded by actors and fantasies seemed adequate to breach the lump of emotion swelling in his throat. All he could do was stare back, fearful to look way, to break the thickened silence between them.

Somewhere in that long gaze, somewhere in the time it took for him to follow an errant tear to course down her face, her walls begin to reform.

"Please go back inside, Castle."

An unexpected jolt of desperation flowed up his spine. And for a moment he was lost in a host of reasons to grab her and not let go, not until he knew where the feeling came from, not until that answer shook him to his very core. But it was a selfish sensation, he could only deduce, wrought with a need purely of his own desire. Belying his worry would not help her, not if the state of her emotions were as precarious as that single word entailed.

And so he didn't move a muscle. As her features withered and waned to a stony façade, he realized how much strength it truly took to stand still.

With a curiosity that felt oddly more like an unshakeable, sinuous ache, he watched those walls build first in her cheeks, shifting and tightening like a noose around her lips. Next came her eyes. Barricade upon unassailable barricade darkened those ire-flecked irises by the second, conjuring years of barriers and hideaways in her emotional retreat.

And for reasons ineludible and lost to him, he said nothing. Every fiber in his body roared for him to take action. Even when he heard the sound of two heavy sets of feet crunching over the lot towards them, when he found himself all too aware that his chance to fire one last salvo proudly carrying every last thing his heart wanted for her was vanishing by the second- he said nothing.

"Do you trust me?" She turned away from him to their approaching guests.

Nothing was emerging. Not from him; no longer from her. No speck of skin, grief-wrought blemish or tear track on her face was visible now. The part of her that he could read far too well was hidden. The curtain of her wavy, honey-kissed hair now played more a shelter for the running than its normal feathery veil for those sunny auburn eyes. For a man who made his living stretching the tiniest specks of detail into earths of color and breath, this absence was acutely infuriating.

He knew in that moment that he was too late.

"Rick?" A mote of concern, or so he hoped, flitted in her clipped voice.

"You know I do." He answered immediately.

"Then believe me when I say that you are better off here," she held up a hand, almost as if she knew a slew of protests were well on their way from his mouth. "And I need you here more than I need you with me."

He was thankful in that moment that she was still turned away from him. The look of hurt that undoubtedly flashed over his face couldn't have been a pretty sight. She couldn't have really meant that. No, he thought. Did she have any idea of what she looked like right now, how much he needed to ensure that she was okay?

Under normal circumstances, if it was a verbal haymaker she was looking for to send him away, her words would have landed right where she probably wanted them to. But something had snapped inside the author's stagnant mind. He let that still simmering thrum of desperation crash at his resolve, nourish his worry like a surge of air feeding a voracious flame. In what could have been nothing but a mere span of a heartbeat, he let that feeling consume him. He knew that whatever was about to spill from his heart was going to crash to dust and echoes against those walls, but no matter if it was hope or something yet deeper inside of him that volleyed it forth, nothing short of death would stop him from speaking now.

"Kate, this is…" He couldn't help but let the growl of frustration break his reply. "Okay, I get it. Whatever this is, whoever this Raglan guy is, it's too personal. Even too personal to tell me."

She flinched.

"And I'm going to do as you ask. I'll go finish with DeWitt." He paused long enough to see her shoulders faintly relax. "But you are wrong."

"Castle-"

"I made a promise to you the day we broke Vong that I would do everything within my power to help you, even if that meant I do nothing at all. But this, Kate…" he took a step forward, only absently realizing he was gesturing between them. "This is about a whole lot more than just my screw-ups and your scars."

"You think I don't know that?" A groan of utter exasperation filled the air. His heart promptly plummeted to the earth when he saw her move. One boot-covered foot promptly stepped towards the agents and away from this. Away from him- too damned far away from him.

The muscles in his arm seemed to twitch to life, and in an instant, a hand rushed through the short expanse between them, to touch her, to connect them, he wasn't sure. The damned thing wasn't exactly communicating with his brain. Every fiber in his body prepared for the pain she would undoubtedly respond with, but when his fingers met the warm flesh of her arm, every worry, every bit of anger- everything- simply vanished.

A clarity that shouldn't come from a simple touch traveled through him.

Without another thought, he pulled her into him.

The force of the tug sent her in an awkward whirl, her unclaimed arm flying out to purchase balance. That too he caught with a speed he wasn't aware he had, and then he pulled with both arms straight to his body. A soft weight collided into him, and suddenly, the flurry of dusty air and motion ceased. It was then he felt it; a gentle warmth radiating under his palms, the rapid beat of a pulse coursing under the pads of his fingers. The warmth grew within him, around him, as his eyes took focus.

Mere inches from his own were two very wide amber-flecked eyes. He parted his lips, a whole speech ready on his tongue. Nothing came. There was a force in them that gave him pause, something that demanded every shred of awareness he had. And soon he felt the gravity of those two depthless earthen orbs pulling him closer and closer. But then he stopped. Something else occurred to the author.

He didn't hear footsteps anymore, neither hers nor the agents. His hands tightened around two smaller fists, pressing them into his chest.

"Has it occurred to you that right now- right now- I honestly can't tell?"

When the same look passed over her features that she always got whenever a new clue unexpectedly fell in her lap, he had all the answer he needed.

"Whatever you're carrying right now is yours to bear," he continued, "but you don't have to do it alone."

Her reply was not immediate. For a few tensed moments, Castle idly bit his lip, waiting for some hint of life from her- a low rush of air leaving her in a sigh, a nervous hand findings its way running through her hair. The author looked once more to her, his stilled and silent partner, and that desperation magnified. While he was more than happy that she wasn't beating him to a pulp, in that moment he would have gladly taken a few jabs just to have some reassurance that she was still in there.

His breath caught in his throat when he felt it.

Those two fists pressing into his chest seemed to relax. A movement scraped over his shirt, and suddenly the warmth grew, seeping through his shirt. Her hands moved under his, opening and turning, until they were flat against his chest.

"You're not going to give up, are you?" she answered tiredly.

He wanted to smile, to lend some semblance of normalcy to this. Humor was what he had meant to lace his reply, but this was bigger than a moment of levity. These precious dwindling seconds meant more than that, she meant more than that. Pure, unchained wanting took its place.

"Have I ever?"

A moment passed, then another. The crunching of footsteps lumbering their way renewed; they felt more like stabs in his gut rather than sounds of encroaching help. The two agents, both looking rather confused, entered the fringes of his vision still some distance away. Yet, they were closing in, their strides slowing, and their forms brimming with expectancy. Then he saw the subtle shake of her head.

"John Raglan. He was…" Her face turned to the approaching men. "He is the last person I expected to see in that ledger."

"A new lead?" he softened his voice as Brooks and Thatcher grew closer.

Beckett didn't look back to him; for once she didn't have to. The brevity of her reply painted her hidden visage well enough.

"I hope not."

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"…and if you can't drive me back to the city, I'll walk."

Castle couldn't help but smirk at the uncharacteristic, albeit perfectly appropriate look of confusion on Agent Brooks' grizzled face. While the elderly man had looked more than just a trifle lost when he and his secretary had finally reached them, his expression turned nearly comical as Beckett went into a flurry of demands, threats, and of course, no explanation.

"You'll walk…" Those were the very first words Beckett had allowed him to say since his and his protégé's arrival by their side.

"It's a beautiful day, sir." She replied with a shrug.

"Are you sure that this can't wait, Detective?" Brooks was staring at her pointedly while scratching his dimpled chin with an earpiece of his sunglasses.

She nodded firmly.

"Thatcher?" He called out.

"Sir." The young man whirled to face his boss.

"Please escort Detective Beckett where she needs to go." Brooks shook his head before turned to the young man. "But the very moment she is done, I want the both of you back here immediately. Is that understood?"

As Thatcher trotted away, Castle silently looked on as Beckett promptly turned to the nearest SUV and marched off.

"Are you ready to finish this, Mister Castle?"

He felt as though his entire body had suddenly been deluged under a hail of ice. His nerves were cold, his throat seemingly seized; frozen by and empty gaze Beckett had made her parting gift before she slammed the SUV's door shut behind her.

He was pretty sure he nodded in reply to whatever Brooks had said.

"Good. I'll be frank with you then. Don't screw this up." The agent said crisply. "I will be sending Oliver in to keep you company. I will not have a dead author on my hands. Is that clear?"

There was a voice somewhere inside his mind yelling madly, booming in time with his pulse, and god was it terrorized. Could he really do this? Alone? Sure, he'd dreamed of it countless times. He had gone so far as to have a certain red-haired girl play the criminal mastermind in some rather epic repartees, for research purposes of course. But this was something entirely more… real.

"Is that clear, Mister Castle?"

"Okay…" He nodded slowly and took a deep breath. "Okay, let's go."

He looked back one more time when the vehicle roared to life. Though he could barely see her through the tinted, reflective windows, he kept all his focus on her. As the vehicle lurched forward, she did not move. She did not look out the window, back to him, as her profile came in full view, not when the muddy wheels carrying her jostled off the graveled lot and back onto the first road back towards civilization.

He was, without a doubt, the last thing on her mind right now.

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He heard the muffled chanting before his hand had reached the interrogation room door.

"After you," Oliver said behind him.

The sight that met him as he opened the door wasn't that much different from the way he left it not long before. Marcus DeWitt was crumpled over the table, his face buried in his hands. His massive body wracked with sobs as his chained arms shook limply by side sides. But now, it wasn't curses or unintelligible wails leaving him like each word was expunging a devil from his heart. The rhythm of the phrase caught the author's ears before the actual words. It was tonally serpentine; sharp and ceaseless like a dying man's prayer.

"Nothing is coincidence," DeWitt muttered as he slumped further towards the table top. "Nothing is coincidence, nothing is coincidence…"

As quietly as he could, Castle sat back down at the end of the table, carefully watching the large man break apart at the seams. The man had lost it; there was no question about it. He looked over to Oliver, whose massive body was standing sentinel at the door. He motioned to the crying man, hoping for some help. But the agent merely gave a curious smirk and shrugged.

What could he do? Wait it out and pray there was still some shred of sentience inside the man that grief hadn't totally enveloped? As hundreds of images of his and Beckett's times in a room just like this flashed in his thoughts, he knew he should be feeling completely in his element. He had done this enough to know every way of getting a man to talk. But it felt wrong, something was missing. As he looked to his sides, it didn't take much of a stretch to know what that something was. The author bit his lip in frustration. This was why he needed Beckett. This was why-

"Do you believe in coincidence, Mister Rook?" DeWitt didn't bother looking up from his cradling hands. "Or are you a man of fate?"

Momentarily caught off guard, Castle immediately shot straight in his chair as though he had been caught sleeping. As the question Marcus had just given him slowly began to sink in, he found himself at a further loss. Wait, he shook his head for a moment. Coincidence, fate- where did that question come from?

"Are you asking me as a federal agent or as a philosopher?" Castle replied carefully.

"Answering questions with more questions; spoken like a true steward of justice," DeWitt's graveled reply came softly. "I'm asking you as a man, nothing more."

"I believe…" he paused, "reality is what you make of it."

The large man raised his head. Shattered and desolate eyes still seeping with tears bore ahead, though not to him. His gaze retracted and quivered with each watery upwelling in his lids, lolling about the room unfocused and lost.

"I prefer to think that both can exist in the same time and space, you see." He continued, the bruises of his lips rising to an awkward, watery smile. "That destiny and chance are more than just dichotomies- they are perspectives. Perspectives, after all, claim a man good or evil, light or dark… good or wicked. To your lovely partner, I could be nothing more than a Jacob Marley; caged in a hell I forged by my own misguidedness. To you, who knows? Maybe a … Professor Moriarty."

Where the beaten and broken man was going with this, the writer could not possibly venture a guess. He looked down at the photos scattered of the table, quickly reminding himself that was what he was here for, but to his chagrin, his thoughts went back to DeWitt's question no matter how hard he tried. There came a feeling bubbling up inside him, one that only awoke when his flair for going on instinct simply dominated all reason. His intrigue had been piqued; the storyteller in him positively alit with curiosity.

"Aiming a little high there, aren't we?"

"I'm afraid not, Agent." DeWitt looked forlornly down to the picture of his deceased brother. "My sins are as long as they are complex."

"Sins are never simple." Castle replied. "They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions for a reason."

DeWitt then did something he was not expecting at all. He smiled.

"Is yours?"

Castle was positive that he remained silent for a very long time. Oh, he knew Marcus was an intelligent man. That much was a given from the last round of questioning. But this- this subversive dance of wit was not quite something he expected to find. This didn't feel like small talk, like simple ponderings of the universe. This was back and forth, a game of code against code.

"Marcus," he began. "You need to tell me what you're talking about, because right now, I have no idea what-"

Castle's voice died in his throat when a single, tear-soaked hand lifted off the table.

"Mine and Michael's father was a preacher; a straight-up dyed in the wool Edwardsian kind." The ire, the upended grief in Marcus' eyes faded a little as one of his shackled hands swept over the single picture of his brother's lifeless body. "Never a moment went by in our house that he couldn't squeeze in a new moral imperative. And so you can guess how Mike and I reacted when we hit our more impressionable years, yeah?"

"We revolted. We sat every time he said stand; we sang every time he wanted silence. And one night, after we wrapped an old Buick around a lamp-post, and had enough whiskey in us to drop a rhino, he told us about hell…"

"He said hell- _real_ hell- isn't the place Dante dreamed up." Marcus shook his head ruefully. "No… He said hell- just like heaven- is the manifestation of our extremes, corporeal tableaus of our very own apex and abyss. So me, he knew I was scared shitless of the dark when I was growing up. Couldn't be more than an elbow away from flashlight at all times. So he said my hell, _my real hell_, is going to be a place that no light would ever pierce. And all my other fears would be somewhere out there in that ceaseless black, playing out in a wailing, disjointed storm. And there I would be, left to wonder if this darkness is the worst it can get… or if I should just reach out into that black and be proven wrong."

Castle sat still, absorbing every detail of the man's story. As the imagery still seared into his mind, he asked the only question he wanted to know.

"And what did you learn?"

Marcus looked him squarely in the eyes. "I learned… that I should have kept my arms by my side."

The shackled man paused, taking a moment to look from Castle and slowly over to the silent agent by the door.

"I want to tell you a story, Agent Rook…"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

**Author's Note**: Fun fact: there are 4 different versions of the argument between Beckett and Castle fully written that at one point were in this chapter. Also, 1 more chapter to go until we're back to brand new chapters! I can't wait to see what you guys think. The next one will hopefully be up tomorrow!


	30. Ghosts in the Grey

**Chapter 30 – Ghosts in the Grey**

He had left the woman broken and lifeless in a steep ditch some states back, somewhere in a verdant wilderness deep in Appalachia. The blood still pocked areas of the passenger's side door, the floorboard reeked a coppery taste still wafting in the tiny hybrid vehicle; too much had already soaked in. Nothing but fire would be removing it now. He felt a flicker of pity for her, whoever she was, to be sure. Her death wasn't clean. Her eyes never lost their final burst of horror. He felt pity, yes, but not regret. He had to be rid of her the very moment he felt it grating the tender skin between his toes.

Sand.

Wiping his hand on his jeans, he winced, but only for a moment. The skin covering his knuckles were cracking, the back of his hand flamed an angry red, already raw and sensitive even to the light breeze coming from the air vents. His driving arm had been itching for the past ten miles around jagged lines where his nails had dug too deep. He couldn't stop himself; the dirt felt like it was burrowing under his flesh.

It was a bloodletting he couldn't stop.

"Why are we going to Kuwait…" he muttered a phrase as familiar as the fatigue that invoked it. "The war is all but over, Coonan. That sandstorm ain't."

God, it was still here, wasn't it? It was everywhere, flying and screaming around him, filling the air like millions of bedeviled needles. Cemented under the grime and fresh blood packed underneath his fingernails, pricking his nerves each time his grip on the steering wheel shifted. A movement couldn't be made without feeling it scratching, scraping its way into the many flaws in his aging skin.

"One more mission. One more, the Sarge just said so..."

Father made The Shrink- a stooge for the old man- stay with him for weeks after his first utterance of that phrase, a mere few days after he and the old man reunited on that god-forsaken abandoned ranch. The poisonous burn of crude oil in his eyes and the metallic taste of blood ruined his appetite that night. However, it was somewhere between the thunderous sound of mortar fire ringing in his ears and waking up to find himself towering over a sobbing maid with the barrel of his stub-nosed revolver pressed between her brows that got the ball rolling. The Shrink told him it was PTSD. What he was feeling, hearing, tasting wasn't there, what he was seeing was ancient history.

"We gotta babysit." He said ruefully and ran his hand over the bumpy imprints of the rosary still tucked inside his jean pocket.

But the portly know-it-all couldn't understand, and neither did father. They weren't there having their lungs half filled with dust and god knows what. They didn't watch a sea of oil towers burn like candles over an infinity of sweeping sands. They weren't among the dead. It was only when father walked in on him choking the life out of The Shrink did he understand what catharsis was needed. The next morning, he got his release from father, from the desert, from a life misspent. He got his first order to kill.

"That's what they said, Evan. We just babysit, and then we're home." He nodded to the fuzzy reflection in the window to his left, hoping the finality in his voice could balm the whipping scream of the storm rattling in his ears. The reflection smiled back. One more mission and he could be a ghost again.

"It won't take long," he sighed, turning his focus back toward the road ahead with a weary smile. "Sarge said it won't."

A hiss ripped through his lips as he picked up the tiny notepad, pilfered right out from under the Sheriff's nervous eyes. How did he not see it coming, he marveled with a hollow chuckle. As he flipped through the first couple of pages with the tender pad of his thumb, he wondered if the Sheriff had realized that he had been duped yet… or if he was still sitting in his office chair completely oblivious even at this very moment. Did it matter? No. He wasn't game to be hunted. The Sheriff would live with his humiliation and that was lenient enough. Nevertheless, the thought carried a rather alien sense of levity- balming him, making him forget about the parched air, if only for a moment.

He looked down to his quarry, to the only page he had given thought to memorize. There in sloppy script on the bottom of the last page of notes were two names that made his sleight of hand worth the risk. Two names, two lives he ended. One just days ago.

_Federal agents under orders came for J. Vong. – alias. Birth name: Michael DeWitt. Homicide, 2 GSW's; one to posterior right thigh, the other in center of forehead. Witnesses place time of shooting at 1:17am, unable to identify suspect…_

The other…

_Suspect in custody of Nathaniel Brooks, CIA New York Division- contact if necessary…_

… It might have been years passed, he couldn't remember; after a while, deaths blended like days. His memory of the hoary agent was as vivid as the day of their one and only meeting. Images of a callous gaze that never faltered, eyes the color and composition of steel, and a voice as coarse and discomforting as a bed of sandpaper. The old lion was a monolith of unbreakable resolve, a man of righteous fire that had come to close to burning the world his father was creating to cinder. His betters had warned him the man could not be crippled, could not be quenched. It took him days to find a flaw, some longer to find his ranch. Then one day, he left the wilds of Virginia vindicated and as high as the hunt had ever taken him.

His one regret was that he didn't stay around to see the steel in Nathaniel Brooks' eyes melt when his family was cast into the flames instead.

Now, a parched smile tugged up his cheeks, he had his chance to see the fruit of his work one last time. He was almost there. Just a few agonizing hours to go until he could end this grating nightmare, then he could rest. He could finally rest.

"One more mission," he said as his eyes trained to a large sign zooming by. He let its simple phrase soak in, and just for a moment, the sand was gone.

_Welcome to New York_

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

There was a flicker of it moments before when he had reentered the room, this shiver of thought nipping at his resolve like a pesky gnat. He had been able to keep it at bay, reminding himself that he had been in this scenario hundreds of times. The interrogation room was quickly becoming his home away from home. While Beckett simply dwarfed him with her ability to make men made of stone crumble, his experiences watching her coupled with his own flare for the dramatics eased any worries he had going in there alone- most of them anyway. A great many things were riding on this, on him, to rise to expectation. He had fallen into his pensive zen the moment he sat down, things looked to be going smoothly. DeWitt was talking much to his surprise, and he didn't even need an inch of encouragement or a volley of threats.

Then the man before him had to go and make a simple request. That pesky thought grew flesh. The notion that he never had or would have control over this conversation was laughing in his face.

The very first thing Castle noticed the moment DeWitt's request was made was the disappearance of grief in the man's face. His eyes, still puffy from the swell of purple bruises surrounding them and the breakdown he just had, cleared of the last remnants of tears. In the blink of an eye, the rage and helplessness prying his lids wide crinkled and focused into a pleading stare that nearly made the author blanch.

"A story." Castle repeated uncertainly and perhaps a trifle guiltily. He could practically feel the spirit of Kate Beckett rolling her eyes somewhere in the room. It was probably the worst of ideas to even entertain the thought of indulging in one. After all, if it was DeWitt's intention to stall things or just to waste time, he was certainly talking to the right man.

Not that the broken man slumped before him, no longer caring to clasp together this ever-fissuring pieces, needed to know that. He was talking. Tears were still streaming down his welted face. His knuckles were pallor and tightened as though he were somehow caging a salvo of hysterical sobs in his iron-tight grasp, but he was talking. No more than a slight in patience could end this; a slab of petulance would slide over that stony mouth. He needed answers for her, for his own sense of justifying Beckett's implicit trust to leave this trove of secrets in his hands. If he didn't, she would never forgive him, would she? She was counting on him.

But, he was talking.

If he pressed him, veered back to reality, back to his dead brother and through a conversation over the very people responsible for it, what would happen then? It felt wrong to let him do this, to be humored in whatever coping mechanism, whatever oblivion he found within beneath this husk of grief. Time, as it were, was not the author's friend. Though her anger fed such a thought, Beckett was right in saying that soon the man before him would simply disappear, somewhere away and forgotten. It wasn't much of a stretch, the author mused ruefully, to conclude that whatever story was in Marcus would share the same fate. This was perhaps their one and only chance.

But, he was talking.

…What choice did he have?

"It will be worth your time, trust me." Castle caught Marcus' flickering glance over in the direction of Oliver before the cuffed man ever so slightly leaned closer. "But you have to promise me something. I need you to listen to what I'm going to tell you."

"Okay…" Doing his best to sound as even as possible, Castle nodded and gave him an affirming flick of his hand.

Marcus' stare only grew harder.

"I need you to _listen_." He repeated, slower, sharper.

Castle wanted to scoff, to open his mouth to reply, but an unexpected thrum of hesitance clamped over the words in his throat. Something had changed, the air suddenly had weight. The intensity pouring out of the man across from him left no room for a shrugging reassurance or anything less than that very same gaze reflected right back at him. It wasn't some expression alien to him, not at all. That was the problem, or rather, what kept his mouth from opening again. It graced every story he had ever written. The words he used to paint its significance varied hundreds of ways, but unwaveringly so, each ended with the same baleful point.

That was the look of a man that knew he was going to die.

"Okay?" He gave a wary nod.

Marcus leaned back in his chair and sank down a little. There was a wilted vulnerability to his slouch. Curling and awkward against his chair's rusty back, almost as if the long, pain-speckled breath leaving his lips spirited off his last vestiges of will. He looked up to the molded, brittle ceiling, then his entire body relaxed.

"I'm a big fan of history, you see. I was a child, and it was an interest I renewed in my _exile_, you could say." He muttered roughly, his voice thickened with sudden emotion. "I used to love the quirks of it; would yap on and on to Michael whenever I found some new event. When we were little, it started out as just the facts, the clinical, play-date part of history: the who's, where's, and when's. Never cared much for the why's. Why- the very idea of it didn't mesh with my imagination as a child. I figured that if I had the fact straight, then the basis for it didn't really matter."

"Most children are the complete opposite, you know." Castle pointed out.

"Precisely," the larger man nodded. "You see, at that age I never really appreciated those things or what they revealed. To me, they were simply toys, something that I could use to sound older or amuse an adult. Not once did I think about all of the things my mind had packed so neatly into a sentence no longer than the span of an eager breath. These things, these… moments. They were points to be made instead of points on a map."

_A map_…? The author's brow twitched with a level of confusion rather difficult to restrain. "A map of what?"

"Tangents. A web if you will, like thousands of strands all radiating from one single thing." Pausing for a moment, a ghost of a smile seemed to flit at the edges of his lips before retreating into the same strange, wistful look. "One such thing happened the day I ran across the name Tomas Torquemada. Then, everything changed."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

_Throwing your life away will not bring her back, Katie._

_Though she did not expect him to be pleased over her announcement, those last words he said to her the day she joined the police academy aggravated her for weeks- that is until certain commemorations and no small amount of wounded pride carried her back home._

_It was the ninth day of January- the third such that she was in no hurry to endure alone._

_Of all days, this one was the day he had chosen to leave the door unlocked. Her father did not answer his phone, too drunk to hear or even wake. It had become his ritual- or was it his rationale- for the past two anniversaries of her mother's death. Drink, forget, and close in. The near suffocating, pungent fog of whiskey saturated in every square inch of the living room spoke volumes of how successful the forgetting part had been._

_As she swept into her childhood home looking for aspirin before taking it to its intended user, she wondered if the person responsible for killing her mother knew her father was as good as dead as well. She used to chuckle at her mother when she said that there was a difference between living and existing. Now? Now standing still as a statue in the threshold of her parent's bedroom, barely finding the mettle to look on to her father's tear-stained face, the wisdom of that statement nearly crippled her._

_Until two weeks ago, both were firmly the latter._

_This year, she had hoped things would change. She had by leaps and bounds. Oh, the pain was still there. The unbridled loneliness scraped like razors in her veins every second of every day. Still palpable, still as fresh and mephitic as though they were still being led to the morgue- and she desperately clutching to his side wondering who was holding who up- to identify her mother's body. But she had learned how to reforge that pain somewhere between finding her mother's paperback copy of In a Hail of Bullets and the day she rescued an abandoned wedding band halfway submerged in a puddle of whiskey by her father's prone form._

_Pain, like any other wound to the body, offers its host a curious dilemma. One can take it and learn from it- or- one can be taken by it. Both choices have their merits, both have their salves. Although there are ways of nurturing such an injury, many of which are simply facets of a single course of action. However, few ever say that some of those remedies are as destructive as leaving the malady unattended. Both of them had chosen to feed the pain with thought, with ghosts. Amongst the host of implements such a solution could manifest, the changes, the epiphanies of character were always subtle, always the least obvious to the person it directly affected._

_At first, her friends would remark her stare was a little harder, her focus a little too intense. Tests were her excuse. Parties and events came and went. Little by little, the times she would not attend and opt to stay in her dorm to read up on forensic methodology or the police blotter grew in frequency. It wasn't until the day she told a close friend that she was thinking of joining the NYPD that she realized some things inside her had changed. That very same friend began to speak of a wall around her, one that had been growing tall and thick. Many of her friends, people she recalled that she hadn't seen in months, had long since given up trying to breach it. When that very same friend remarked that she hardly recognized her anymore after seeing the sloppy, makeshift timeline of her mother's murder by her desk, her conviction grew. When the girl said that she was taking her mother's death a little too far, that wall grew more and more until any semblance of the old Katie Beckett was as much a ghost of a bygone youth as her friend._

_She was becoming a weapon, a motivated, voracious instrument for answers. The word vengeance came to mind more often than she cared to admit. At the very least, that very word gave her direction, even if it meant going the opposite way of everyone else. It was easier to focus that way, with everything and everyone at arm's length. Behind that wall, a stronger, more impervious woman became flesh._

_The metamorphosis her father endured was an entirely different matter._

_It was a brisk spring morning some months after the murder when Kate learned a lesson every child inevitably faces: parents are not infallible. After the funeral, the name Johanna never graced his lips in front of her again. Pictures of her remained everywhere around the house, but never did she catch his eyes on them. Each weekend, she would visit in hopes that he would talk, show some signs of the life he used to radiate. Each time, she would walk through the door desperate to pour her heart out, to commiserate together only to find him sitting in her mother's favorite loveseat, completely awash in oblivion with a picture of the family resting on his lap. _

_That morning was no different, except for the appearance of a glass of scotch in his hand._

_A year later, she received a call. Her father had not shown up for work for four days. When a few concerned colleagues asked her to check on him, she immediately dropped everything she was doing at college. Even in her guarded state, the alchemy of losing one parent and the prospect that the other might have been taken as well was as potently terrifying as it was galvanizing. The walls were still fragile, still thickening, and the visions of his grisly fate that plagued her all the way home threatened to topple them and her hope to ever have peace again._

_Although everything that happened after the moment she charged into her home only to find her father passed out surrounded by bottles was a blur of panic, she did remember the verbal bombs she dropped to wake him. Her memory couldn't conjure any of the breakdown she had the moment he opened his eyes or his attempts to calm her down. However, she would probably never forget the only thing she said as he stood up._

_I thought they took you too…_

_I thought they took you too, she sobbed, weakly slapping his chest as he drew her into the first hug they shared since that January night._

_Things were slightly different after that. He had begun to go out again with his friends; he started doing a little pro bono work here and there. He even attended her commencement some weeks ago- and he smiled. It was almost so touching to see, her resolve to tell him her plans began to waver. That is, until he asked to what graduate schools she had applied._

_None. _

_What few and fickle spirits left him when she announced the future she intended to suffer. The fine arts were being deserted for a firearm, the books and boys for a badge. _

_But why, he said. He didn't get it, he really didn't._

_You know why._

_He did. The flicker of vengeance in his eyes practically roared that warning as loudly as a cornered lion. She wanted to hear him talk about their missing piece, yell and scream- acknowledge- that he needed closure as desperately as she did. Yet, all he could muster was the name Raglan. John Raglan. The name pounded out of his intermittently sober voice like he considered the detective a paragon of fact, fate… nothing less than Lady Justice herself._

_Raglan is missing something, she beseeched. Every bone in her body could feel it. There was something unsettling about every detail of that night. Her mother was no stranger of bad neighborhoods. Her job, and moreover, the power of her convictions took her there many times before. Yet, to be there- at night- mulling around an alley by a bar when they had planned to meet for a family dinner at the exact same time wasn't her nature. It wasn't right._

_It was random gang violence, her father implored, it was random._

_Murder is not that simple was her reply; words ripped straight out of At Dusk We Die._

_And the decision to throw your life away is?_

_Her next words were the last she spoke on the matter._

_And you're not…?_

_It was possibly the most biting thing she had ever said to her father, yet in a strange, morbid way, she knew both of them were right. Both were voluntarily walking towards death. The only difference was that her method made sense. Justice hadn't come in three years; the monthly calls from Detective Raglan had all but stopped. Her mother was dead, her father was getting there, and any semblance of youth had been stolen from her. What other choice could there be other than to deliver a world of hell entirely proportionate to her own to the monsters responsible for it. Wrath, after all, was perhaps the most lucid process of healing._

_She had Detective John Raglan to thank for that._

_Now weeks removed from that brief conversation, she could still see it weighing him down. _

"_Why are you here?" His voice was not of anger, but of a lost- utterly lost- man._

"_It's the ninth, dad."_

_He moved slowly out of the covers and sat on the side of his bed. He immediately sank into a deep slouch, his hands cradling his head as he braced his elbows on his thighs. However it were possible, the moment her reply seemed to register, his body bowed even more. _

"_Oh."_

_She had expected this, to see her father waking out of another alcoholic stupor. Something was different about this one, however. The usual veil of oblivion glossing over his eyes wasn't there. Instead, all she could see in the man before her was a never-ending, crushing gravity of awareness._

"_I'm sorry," he whispered._

_The words themselves were rare enough to warrant her concern, but the weight of such a simple phrase paled against the grief that poured out of his suddenly widened, desperate eyes as though a wound had opened somewhere behind their steely blue orbs._

"_Dad, it's alright. Just… just go get ready and-"_

"_No," his head shook violently. "No, it's not alright."_

_He held up a single hand, wordlessly begging her to stay as he tried to compose himself, to stop the sudden bout of sobs and painful hisses for air. He didn't need to beg. The glimmer of hope, however faint, was still inside her, still hoping her father was still in there somewhere._

_Until his eyes moved from her to his bedside table._

"_A long time ago, as I was reading your favorite story to you, you asked me something that has stayed with me since then." He paused a moment. To Kate's dismay, she watched as one hand slowly drifted towards a large bottle of vodka on his bedside table as he spoke._

_Every fiber in her body told her to just turn and leave, to visit her mother's grave and go back to the academy. Leave and never return. She loved her dad, she loved him through every flaw, every pang of disappointment when he would choose the comfort of a bottle instead of reaching out to comfort her. Seeing him like this was becoming too much though. Half of him died that night in an alley by a dive bar, and watching the rest wither to dust was a level of cruelty no child should ever have to witness._

_The muscles in her legs twitched, yearned to retreated, almost as though her body was acting on self-preservation whether her heart wanted to or not._

"_You asked me what a prince is," he said softly. Then her father did something that caused her feet to fetter and the need to shatter become nearly unshakeable. _

_His hand retreated from the bottle._

"_Do you remember that, Katie?"_

_She didn't move a muscle or open her mouth to reply. There was too much emotion, currents of confusion and love swelling in her throat; but moreover, more importantly, she didn't want to hurt him. She didn't want to even admit she didn't remember._

"_I was thinking about that the other day, you know… after your announcement." He paused. "It was one of the easiest questions you had ever asked me, and every time you did, I would tell you the same thing; that a prince is someone who protects the ones he loves."_

_The stroll down memory lane wasn't what got her to take a single step into the room. It wasn't the words or the optimism contained in such a simple phrase from her past. It was his voice. She knew the tone that carried out that memory all too well. It was the kind of agony-laced lilt that taunted her every night in her sleep, the barking, withering timbre of voices in her head that pushed her well beyond her limits at the academy. It was regret._

"_You're old enough now to know that explanation isn't the whole story," his brows furrowed as he lifted his hands to his chest, slightly curling his fingers. His hands shook slightly, almost as though he was using every ounce of his strength to find the right words to say, to pull them into his grasp and never let go. "Stories of princes and fairytales exist because there is no easy way to tell a child that the world is not just made of light and dark. There is an infinity of grey in between, and we somehow have to find the right way to explain it, navigate it. The problem with those stories is that they never tell you that death is squarely in it." _

"_The day you were born, I swore on my life that I would do everything within my power to make sure you never had a reason to cry. I remember those words about a prince so well because they encapsulate everything a father should be. A protector, a guide… shelter."_

"_And ever since you told me you had joined the police academy," he muttered as his head sank, "I can't think of a single time I've been any of those things for you since Johanna died. And it hurts; it angers me that I couldn't do for you what you are willing to do for perfect strangers. What does that say about me… what does that say about what I've become?"_

_He had said her name. For the first time in nearly two years, the only word she had ever wanted to hear from him had finally sounded. A soft, quiet sniffle left her. "Dad…"_

"_I don't…" His watery, shaking voice died under a sudden, heaving sob. "I don't want your mother to see me like this."_

_The muscles in her legs twitched again. This time she let them carry her exactly to where her heart needed to be in that moment. The force of her body crashing into his made his legs tremble, his stance stagger to catch her full weight, but he didn't break and he didn't let go- and nothing could have kept her from doing the same. As his arms encircled her shaking frame, warmth she scarcely thought she would feel again enveloped her._

"_I failed her, Katie…" Her father sobbed. "I failed you."_

_Nothing more needed to be said. Her heart simply shattered under the brunt of his admission. He knew the damage had already been done, she could feel it each time he squeezed her just a little tighter. This moment, this beautiful moment wouldn't stop her, it wouldn't sate her hunger for retribution. As a slew of whispered apologies left both of them, she briefly wondered who was holding who up._

_He left the room some time later to change, leaving her to her own thoughts. As she turned, lost in the memories of running in and climbing onto the bed to wake them on Christmas morning, something caught her eye. Resting at the center of a dresser was a simple wooden box with a framed picture on its lid. Staring back at her was her mother, younger in the face though sporting a pair of tired, but serene eyes. Cradled in her hands, swaddled in pink blankets, a baby slept on her chest. Even as she lifted the lid, her eyes did not leave the pair of eyes that looked so much like her own, not until the thing she was meant to see arrested her eyes the moment it slipped into view._

"_When I put that ring on her finger, I knew that was it for me. Every part of me was hers, every part. I knew I couldn't love any other as fiercely as I loved her. Then something extraordinary happened one day that altered that thought…"_

_Her father stepped into the room, his head low, humble._

"…_You were born. And whatever plans I had didn't matter anymore. There were only two things that did, yours and your mother's wellbeing."_

_Through the blur of unshed tears, she looked back to the bed, back to her father._

"_I…" His voice broke, his gaze turned in shame. "I want you to hold it. For her."_

_Picking up her mother's ring, she was about to close the box when a simple gold chain caught her eye. Its links were thin, its luster worn down in many places. Merely holding it, letting it drape over her open palm and over the ring nestled underneath it made it look small, almost insignificant in worth or scale. Pendants of many kinds were scattered around it, their size alone, were they ever to attach to it threatened to snap its links under a weight that it could not possibly carry._

_It looked too fragile, too strained._

"_Do you really want to do this, Katie? Do you want to be a cop?"_

_She looked back to meet his worried eyes. The answer was simple for her that day. The worth of her life had nothing to do with any more. Hers had ended the night they took her mother. There were others, however, the silent ones too frail to fight back. Others were needed behind her wall. The word redemption came to mind._

"_I've never been so sure of anything in my life."_

_Without a second thought, she unclasped the dainty chain and looped it through the ring. The necklace slipped over her head, bringing its quarry to rest over her heart, carrying- enduring- its new weight._

_It did not break._

"_Throwing your life away won't bring her back, Katie…"_

_She took one last tear-filled glance at the abandoned bottle of vodka on his bedside table. _

"_I know."_

_Two days later, he called to tell her he joined a support group. _

_Three months later, as she stepped through the doors of the 12th precinct for the first time, a soft echo of her mother's voice whispered in her thoughts._

_Pain, like any other wound to the body, offers its host a curious dilemma. One can take it and learn from it- or- one can be taken by it. Both choices have their merits, both have their faults. Although there are ways of nurturing such an injury, many of which are simply facets of a single course of action…_

The young man behind her cleared his throat, breaking her from her reverie.

"Detective Beckett…?" Agent Thatcher spoke tentatively. "Are, um, are you alright?"

Kate said nothing and slipped a key into her apartment door. The voice no small part of her wanted to hear ask that very question wasn't the one behind her. Her anger grew even higher.

Somewhere between her last glance to Castle standing frozen in the middle of the parking lot and unlocking her door, the fury inside her didn't wane like she had hoped. It took no more than an hour to reach her apartment, although she had a sneaking suspicion that whatever death-glare she had been wearing along the way had the young Agent Thatcher galvanizing his efforts to break a few dozen traffic laws. Yet in that time, her nerves never left their righteous edge.

Raglan. A name she had scarcely thought of since the day her father quit drinking.

Every image of that bastard now seemed poisoned- he, standing idly in the fringe of her blurry, tear-mussed periphery looking on as his grim news broke the air. His tired, sagging eyes calm and indifferent, showing nary a sympathetic gesture as her father's weakening embrace was all that kept her from collapsing on their porch and crumbling to pieces. She had thirteen years to memorize every detail of that night, to reopen the wound it left every night in her sleep. Now, however, all of it was suspect. Every piece of a still vivid memory, every sight and every half-hearted apology to the day he told her that it was gang violence that took her mother. All of it had to be revisited, but that was nothing new. The number of days his ineptitude sent her into a flurry to sneak away to archives and read her mother's case file was countless. In his hands, justice was never going to be served. Now she knew why.

As if that wasn't enough of a weight to bear, when her mind wasn't blazing a spotlight down on every image of John Raglan her memory managed to dredge, what scant, errant thoughts were glancing about never failed to arrive without a pair of arresting blue eyes.

"Stay there," she muttered behind her as she twisted the doorknob.

It should have been Castle waiting behind her, bouncing on his heels, prodding and teasing as though the door to her apartment was a gateway to some sort of treasure trove. Instead, there was young man behind her was still as stone, a glorified chauffer with a service piece. Even though she couldn't shake the feeling that leaving him to continue with DeWitt was the only viable option given to her, it just felt… wrong.

He would have left with her if he knew who Raglan was; she had no doubt of that. The level of loyalty he had shown by following her into this mess spoke volumes of the man, and amidst a flurry of denial, she knew that it shed even more light on the places inside her that he had made a home. She knew that what she felt for him ran _deep, _an unfathomable kind of deep. Even though she had yet to take the time to get used to those feelings or see just how far they went, their existence was as ineludible, as obvious as the sun shining in the day. They were constants in her that she spent every second around him trying to ignore and often failed. Yet, not even these… feelings, however, these sensations that Castle could so easily evoke from her could break through her fury. Even so, the image of his figure frozen still in a gravel lot as she drove away had yet to fade.

Until she saw Raglan's name in the ledger she had not felt so upended, so betrayed by another since the day he gave them the motive for her mother's death. Whatever was left of her rational thought was screaming at her to calm down. Calm down and _tell Rick _what was wrong. She couldn't and even now her reasons for doing so were still raging in her mind. He needed to finish with DeWitt, not worry about her. He needed to continue where she couldn't. Why couldn't he understand that? There were more important things for him to do than watch her implode. She had faith in him, more than she would probably ever admit to his face. He would be fine, she reasoned. He will understand.

Still, she thought as she opened the door, _it felt wrong_.

She had hoped she could regain some semblance of control solely from the act of going home, slipping into the comfort of her hideaway. It had been a week since she had last touched this door, and if she were honest, she presumed that it would have been weeks more. A voice that sounded suspiciously like her partner's sounded in her thoughts, something about the heart growing fonder.

Instead, a musky waft of damp, stale air was her homecoming gift.

_Little good that did_, she groused to a passing portrait of a harmonious mountain chain that looked far too offending for its own good. Marching into her bedroom, she made a beeline straight for the closet. As she opened its door, she cursed under her breath when a rather traitorous thought of what Castle would say if he could look in here flitted through her. Gritting her teeth, she tried to focus her eyes in the darkness under the rack of jeans hanging closest to the floor. Just a hint of a box edged into the gloom of light, just a sliver of it could be seen. Without wasting another second, she yanked it from its resting place.

"What are you here for anyway?" She heard the young agent's distant voice call out from the hallway.

Dropping to her knees by the size of the box, she took the lid off and began to carefully remove stack by stack of every file she had ever accumulated surrounding her mother's murder. The first was a copy of a newspaper clipping covering the details of a shooting at a police station, where one Dick Coonan had been killed. Next came handwritten notes she penned the day after- every word, every taunt that left the man's mouth before she put a bullet in his chest. Years of notes, written on everything from official inquiries to scrap paper were removed one by one until the object of her search came into view. Adorning the front of a pencil thin stack of paper, Raglan's jovial face came into view. The clipping itself was fading, its fringes were worn and jagged, evidence of its frequent retrieval and her own disheveled nerves the day she had ripped it from the front page.

She leafed through the first few pages, her eyes taking in bits and pieces of random information as they flew by. Name, date of birth, record of service, every bit of information she had ever collected from news articles or from memory of the file on the man was there. Everything she needed to understand why his name was in Burbury's ledger was in her hands, everything except for one thing- his current whereabouts.

With her next destination coming firmly the forefront of her mind, she put the rest of the files back into the box and pushed it back into the closet.

"Answers." She replied.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

_Torquemada_, Castle blinked and wondered if he heard the man correctly- any self-respecting amore of the macabre knew the name. Some of the vilest, most detestable implements of death, even in the opinion of a man who made his living finding creative ways to kill people, were attributed to Tomas' part in history. That, however, was a few centuries shy of being here or there. Unless the man himself had somehow traveled through time and ordered Senator Burbury's death, no small part of the author's thoughts wondered if he had mistaken Marcus' death-bed eyes for something just as lucid and unbridled.

Insanity.

_Where is he going with this_? Castle pondered. Here was a man who not moments before had sworn vengeance on those who would harm his brother- and now knowing the fate of his sibling, all he could speak of were maps and history? This was more than a story, wasn't it? It had to be, he thought. That was the only rational way to explain how a he could be viciously smug and carefree not an hour ago, then crumbling a grieving mess moments later, and now quibbling over history. This didn't come across as some sort of coping mechanism any longer. Now this was something entirely different. For all his insights into the warped minds of criminals, all his affinity for finding ways to bridge gaps in any story, this was not logical. There was no cohesiveness to be found in his personality. The man was crazy, he concluded. Batshit, some would say.

"The grand inquisitor?" Castle slightly cocked his head. "You do realize that when a suspect is being interrogated and they say 'story', things that actually pertain to being incarcerated tend to come first, right? Tell me how you knew Alvin Burbury, Marcus."

Marcus barely tilted his head forward, the lids of his eyes falling to near indistinguishable slits as his gaze met the writer's.

"The thing about this guy is people don't know him." Infuriatingly enough, Marcus continued as though everything Castle had said simply vanished before meeting his ears. "He wasn't a king or an artist; not a scholar or even a great warrior. Sure, he had his part in changing the world, but he was only a tiny little cog in a massive machine."

"Okay stop," Castle held up his hand. "I like the quirks of history as much as the next guy, but is this going some-"

"And I wondered to myself," A dissonant mixture of chains rustling and Marcus' brutish voice muted his plea. "Why was this man important enough to be remembered four centuries after his death? The first paragraph that I read about him didn't hesitate to paint him as some sort of monster- the wording littered all around this one man was dark, negative, and for the life of me I couldn't understand why."

Oh, he wanted to remain calm, but this was going nowhere. He had seen some of New York's hardest and craziest criminals try to yank Beckett around only to be practically pulverized by her seconds later. He hoped the next words coming out of his mouth would be something she would be proud of, something that justified leaving him alone in this box with their best lead…

"Did you try the second paragraph?"

Steeling his innocent gaze as a coughing fit overcame the ogre by the door, Castle was happy to see Marcus had the decency to look insulted- if only for a moment.

"Like Joseph McCarthy centuries later, Torquemada needed something greater than himself to be remembered." DeWitt continued. "The answer, Agent Rook, was almost as infuriating as it was addictive: this man, his innocuous speck in the mythos of history, needed a story in order to outlive his weighty existence. I learned in that moment that history makes you known, but it's the story… the story that makes you immortal."

The frivolity of the conversation suddenly lost all its humor for him. If Marcus had said anything passed that, he did not hear it.

_Immortal_… _Wait, no that can't be right…_

A very familiar chill ran up Castle's spine. There always came a point in the process of writing a crime where he had to face his most troublesome foe- the big twist. It was the moment that every good mystery needed, it was the part he loved to experience but hated to plot. It had to be perfect; it had to catch him as completely unaware as the reader he intended to enthrall. Otherwise it wouldn't be a story worth of the Castle brand. It would be nothing more than a mess of events without a single, undeniable connection. So he would gather all the pieces he had created, every tiny detail and red herring he created to throw off his more keenly-eyed fans, and then he would wait. Sometimes he would stare at his makeshift murder board for hours, processing every path he could take, every way he could transform the confusion and chaos into a jaw dropping clarity so powerful, even he would feel it. Only when he did, would the story begin.

The conversation he had with Beckett in Savannah about the riddle rushed forward- the connection slithered from memory to moment. Transcendence- the only theme he divined from the Vong's enigmatic words. His pulse quickened at the sudden implication. Was he right all along? Did Marcus know the truth behind his brother's cryptic last words?

He opened his mouth to say something, to at last gain some control over this conversation. Instead, his brow arched in confusion when the prisoner gave a lopsided, childlike smile. Marcus' large hands appeared from under the table, and the very moment they landed on the array of pictures scattered about, they began to move in strangely long, sweeping arcs- again and again. It occurred to the author that it almost looked like Marcus was… painting?

"…The story is everything, Agent Rook." The pointed narrowing of his gaze did not go unnoticed. Then Marcus' eyes left his and began to follow his moving hands. "Everything."

"What did his story tell you, Marcus?" He wasn't sure if asking such a question still remained in the realm of rationality, but his reasoning for asking it was practically taking up every sense he had. All of this, everything Marcus was saying was allegory.

"That history may be presented as fact, when in fact it is nothing more than _perspective_." He answered with a small shrug as though it were the simplest idea he knew.

The strangeness of the conversation didn't breach Castle's thoughts any longer. DeWitt was trying to tell him something, he was sure of it. Although the writer in him insisted on wondering why the man before him would resort to the safety of a purely allegorical tale when there obviously wasn't anyone around besides him and the ogre, he brushed the thought aside.

Mindful to keep his gaze firmly locked on Marcus' curiously moving hands, the author let his mind replay every word the man before him had said. Immortals and maps, stories and perspectives, they stood out from rest, dwarfed them. But why? What about the only two subjects of his interest even merited being surrounded, composed, by these words? If Castle were honest with himself, he never really viewed the exploits of the two men Marcus mentioned as anything more than examples. They were lessons in hubris, the depths that men can blindly hate. That's all they had in common- well, except for the whole mass hysteria part…

He froze. Could it really be that simple? Recalling DeWitt stressing the importance of the _story_, there was only one common thread between those of Torquemada and McCarthy, only one thing that made events like the kind they were a part of become so large in the grand scheme of history.

Castle's eyes snapped up to the prisoner.

"If the stories are everything," he said slowly, carefully. "Then what about the men made famous by them?"

For a moment, Marcus simply stared at him, judging him. Then he smiled.

"They are dead, Agent Rook. They are nothing in its ultimate sense. A speck of sand in a desert, if you will."

Castle had always taken pride in his panache for having a rather fierce poker face. The admirable trait was a product of many days squandered over a deck of cards while waiting for his mother's latest play or rehearsal to end- even more insisting to his mother or the police that he was, indeed, innocent.

This time, he couldn't help but slacken his jaw a little, let his eyes widen as the word desert entered the conversation. Granted, it had come up before when Marcus was forced to admit he had faked his death in Gulf War I, but that was before the man in front of him decided to spill the allegorical beans. That was before Marcus' face took on the expression of a man reciting his last will and testament.

"But the dead, Mister Rook, are a part of a greater chain of events." As he spoke, Marcus' eyes flashed to the ogre by the door before returning to him. "Much like you are now."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"What in the hell are they talking about…"

Brooks shook his head in disbelief. He pushed himself away from the sturdy perch of his desk, unable to watch anymore of the senseless chit-chat going on just beyond the soundproof window it rested against. He should have known better than to think a celebrity who wanted to play cops and robbers would get anything out of DeWitt.

What the hell was he thinking when he relented to this. What could his bosses have possibly seen in this man and his absent partner, who was currently god knows where, that could have possibly even _hinted_ that they might be able to break open an investigation he had been spearhead for fifteen years. Screw what Burbury requested, he fumed. When did the last wishes of any vic even make a blip on their radar! Burbury was dead because he made bad decisions, and they thought this one was going to be any different?

"While you two are getting cozy in there, how about you go on ahead and give him a damn autograph!" he yelled before collapsing into his chair feeling utterly deflated.

He looked around the room, taking in every clipping he had pinned to the wall, positively disgusted that all of _this_ had somehow devolved to the circus act going on in the room adjoining his. To his left, a map of the country covered nearly the entirety of the furthest wall. He looked at every single pin, hundreds of them, that he had pushed into it over the years- the white ones, the rumors; the green ones, sources of income; the red ones, suspected members; and the black ones…

Well, their meaning was obvious.

A near crippling wave of sorrow and rage filled him as his eyes landed on the only black pin in his home state of Virginia. Beside it an old, curling small yellow note was stuck by what little adhesive had not dried away: Two deaths, one adult female, and one adolescent male.

He tore his eyes away from the map, frustrated and restless. This is what they died for, wasn't it? This room filled to the brim with his life's work and now when it all actually mattered, when his day for some measure of vengeance had finally arrived, it was passed to others he was forced to babysit. He had screamed until his throat had bled for anyone above him to listen to his warnings. They never did, in all the years he roared, they never did. Like the wealth of knowledge surrounding him now, he was obsolete. He was this room, his home away from…

Well, nothing anymore.

His eyes blazed over his desk, looking for anything that would stop the incessant drivel filtering from the adjoining room to stop. As if some divine mercy were guiding his eyes, his phone came into view.

Snatching up the device, he was immediately reminded of the plethora of half-hearted requests his secretary had given him since the day began.

_13 Missed Calls_

It came as no surprise to him why Thatcher had been so insistent that he called the Sheriff back in Georgia. Every single missed call was from him.

Throwing one last withering glance through the observation room window, he punched the number with his thumb and waited.

And waited…

…Until the line went dead.

Studying the face of his phone for just a second, he immediately redialed.

And waited…

Then, the line clicked to life. He gave an irritated huff before looking away from interrogation room.

"It's about time, Teague." He said as politely as possible. "Mind telling me why you've called me 13 times in the past 3 hours?"

"Um…Chatham County Sheriff's Office." A voice on the other line quaked. "Who is this?"

A frown appeared on the elderly man's scruffy face almost as quickly as the overwhelming rush of frustration dissipated.

That voice was most definitely not Sheriff Teague's.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"Then tell me what is happening so we can stop it." Castle replied.

Marcus shook his head and sighed. "I wasn't lying to you or your partner when I told you that I don't know going on. I don't know who these people are. I don't know why they killed my brother. All I know is that someone thinks I _should_."

"No, you're lying." Castle shook his head vehemently, gesturing to the stacks of files by his side. All the subtle hints Marcus had been throwing his way couldn't have been his imagination. There were too many connections in his story to things he'd seen over the past week- deserts, immortality- there was a reason these things kept popping up. There had to be something that made the DeWitt brother's essentially speak the same words.

The time for subtext had run its course and a surge of force he'd rarely ever felt hurled him forward. He needed to know, to have some whisper of an answer. He narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw as he slammed his hands on the table- a move blatantly, reverently Beckett-inspired.

"Senator Burbury knew his time was coming to an end long before he sent your brother to give you a message." He pressed. "I know you knew the Senator somehow, Marcus. There is no other way to explain why he trusted your brother and you with his last act on Earth. What is it? What would you know that he thought you could expose? Arms dealing? Laundering?"

"I don't know."

Castle bit his lip in frustration. "Politics? Was that it? Did the Senator hear something that he wasn't supposed to? Did he shoot down legislation that they wanted?"

"Agent Rook… It takes more than the bile of political ideology to galvanize a people to press the reset button on mankind."

If time had stopped, if the world had burst to flames all around in that moment, Richard Castle wouldn't have blinked. His entire body stiffened as the words sank in, filled his ears and roared in his thoughts, again and again.

"Reset…" He sputtered. "Who said anything about a reset button?"

"Is that all you're taking away from this, Agent?"

"Isn't that more than enough to take away?" Castle shot back frantically, unable to keep his nerves in check any longer. Where is Beckett, he wondered worriedly. He needed her. He needed her now.

"Think about the story that I told you," Marcus said in a strangely pointed tone, his hands moved faster over the table. "Now consider this… there's a room in my old home that neither Michael nor I built or… furnished. And Agent? I hadn't been home in 10 years."

The hairs on Castle's arms rose. Images of that very room flashed across Castle's mind. The procession of giant marble statues linings its walls, the half-melted candles littering their bases- and in the center of the room, a single statue surrounded by bowls and cups.

Dionysus.

"Wait, are you saying that this is theological?" Castle said, ignoring the queasy lurch in his stomach. "Rathborne is a cult?"

"You have an excellent memory, Mr. Rook." Marcus tilted forward, giving an appraising furrow of his brow. "As much as I've enjoyed this conversation, I'm afraid it won't be going on much longer. Before that happens, I just want to tell you one more thing."

Castle cocked his head, wondering if he'd heard him correctly. "End? This doesn't end until I say it does."

The smile he gave promptly told Castle that he was being ignored.

"When nothing makes sense, don't give up." He said. "Take a step back… and look closer."

Castle narrowed his eyes. "…What?"

To Castle's further bewilderment, the man's smile lilted into a curious smirk. And perhaps for the first time since his story began, Marcus' eyes moved away from him or his own hands, glinting secretively, victoriously- when they landed upon the other occupant in the room. The Ogre.

"…Isn't that right, _Corporal_?"

When Castle looked over to the ogre, he expected to see the man as baffled by the moniker as he was. He was not prepared however, by any stretch of the imagination, to see the gigantic man removing a gun from its holster.

Amidst the sound of his chair scraping violently over concrete and his own voice lashing out unintelligible cries of confusion, Castle found himself scrambling backward until his back crushed into the concrete wall so roughly that what little air was making it into his rapidly pumping lungs left him in a rush.

As he slid down to the floor in a powerless heap, his wide eyes never left sight of the ogre shaking his head as he pulled the hammer back until it clicked.

The ogre gave a terrible smile.

"You shouldn't have been caught, Marcus."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"Hello?" The voice repeated tentatively on the other end.

Brooks brought the phone directly under his nose and looked down to its screen- it was Teague's number, the same one that had practically filled up his missed calls page in the past hour. Shaken from his befuddlement, a scowl immediately took over his features as he brought the phone back to his ear.

"Who in the hell is this?" He barked furiously. "Put your damn boss on the line right now!"

"Sir, calm down…" The voice's request sounded oddly despondent. "This is Deputy Eric Stanton and I need to know why you're calling for the Sheriff."

Brooks bit back a scoff. "Son, if Teague isn't on the line in the next three seconds you will not like where this call will be heading."

"I can't." The man on the other end sputtered.

"The hell you can't," Brooks seethed. "He has information in an ongoing federal investigation that _I am in charge of_, and if he felt the need to call me thirteen times, he can take a moment to-"

"What investigation, sir?" the Deputy cut in, and the chatter of other voices appeared somewhere in the background. "Is this about the DeWitt boys?"

"I've had enough of this." He spat loudly. "Tell your boss that I don't have time to waste on-"

"He's dead, so calm down!" The man practically shouted, cutting him off. Then he gave a heavy sigh. "He's… Sheriff Teague is dead."

He froze in place.

"I… I beg your pardon?" Brooks said slowly.

The voice sighed heavily. "The Sheriff and another officer were gunned down in his office. We found them an hour ago."

The elder agent's body promptly went numb. It didn't take the dozens of years of experience that he had to know exactly what that meant. Save for him and a quickly assembled contingent of in-state security, no one, not even the self-righteous know-it-all Knox, knew that he had traveled to Savannah as part of the investigation that very morning. Only his superiors, his secretary and the Day Care guard knew that he had brought a high profile person of interest back with him. As much as he detested the author currently bumbling his way through an interrogation and the man's muse, he knew they weren't stupid. He knew that they had enough respect for what this case meant to not leak it to the world.

Somebody was watching them- or him- it didn't matter which, the end result was still the same. Someone was tracking their every move, sweeping up all the mess in their wake like a broom. There was only one reason why the sheriff would be dead. The dark conclusion was evident. They were dealing with a mole.

With a sense of panic he hadn't felt in a long time, he wracked his mind for some sort of silver lining. "Please tell me you have a suspect in custody."

"Sorry sir, but we don't ha-"

A thunderous boom exploded off to his right side, causing the elderly the agent to jolt away from the ear-piercing sound. When he looked to the direction of the all too familiar noise, the phone dropped from his hand and his blood ran cold. Through the observation window, his wild, alert gaze first drew to the suspect. His experience told him to expect the worst, that he would see Marcus standing there with a gun in his hand and a smirk of victory on his face.

Instead, he saw eyes dimming with light, fading with life as each second passed. He saw his shackled body hanging limply, awkwardly over the back of the chair. Then the wound registered, the crater of blood on Marcus DeWitt's stilled chest filled his vision.

Then, his experience dissolved into an unfamiliar, fledgling burn of shock as he looked over to Agent Oliver who smiling from ear to ear as he casually paced towards the bulletproof, two-way mirror. The giant of a man extended his arm, raising it higher and higher; a still smoking pistol came into view.

Brooks burst from his stupor, his hand shooting into his jacket, frantically fumbling over the handle of his revolver.

Oliver's arm suddenly stopped its ascent. The gun was not pointing at him. Following the angle of the large man's arm, the agent's terrified eyes slowly moved down.

The last thing Brooks noticed before he launched himself into a furious dash out of the room with his service piece leading the way was the barrel of that recently fired gun pressed against Richard Castle's head.

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**Author's Notes**: Longest chapter ever? Longest chapter ever. Long notes incoming! My father is a history teacher, and he would never forgive me if I didn't leave notes on some of the points in this chapter. So just in case any of the references in this chapter are unknown to you, here is a brief primer.

**Tomas de Torquemada** was the first Inquisitor General of the Spanish Inquisition- basically the face of the times and atrocities then committed. I highly recommend reading anything and everything on this era in European history, particularly what events led up to it. He is a twine in a very, very complex web- one that I encourage all of you to journey.

**Joseph McCarthy** was a U.S. Senator and prominent face of the Red Scare, an era in American history in which it was widely feared that the federal government and American society were being influenced and infiltrated by communists. Famously flaunting knowledge of known communists, McCarthy headed special tribunals which sole purpose was to make examples out of suspected "un-American" people (Not to be confused with the HUAC- the House Un-American Activities Committee, or Harry Truman's Executive Order 9835). Fun times were had by all, I'm sure. If you want to see a really interesting example of how this era affected movies and entertainment, check out any text on The Red Channels. The Red Channels was an anti-communist publication that named 150 individuals in entertainment, the media, and the arts that were apparently up to naughty and very un-American things. Notable people named in the Red Channels include: Burl Ives (Seriously? Frosty the fucking Snowman?), Langston Hughes, Judy Holliday, Lena Horne, Burgess Meredith, Arthur Miller, Leonard Bernstein, and Orson Welles. Some of the named were eventually blacklisted from ever working in Hollywood or entertainment again.

Also, we're finally back to new chapters. So I hope you guys have enjoyed the rewritten chapters! Now that we're on to new stuff, I hope you guys continue to review and share your thoughts! Next chapter is titled Out Come the Wolves and it should be up by the end of this weekend!


	31. Saints and Sinners

**Chapter 31 – Saints and Sinners**

It was early in the afternoon when Ryan and his very tired partner finally arrived at their destination. As they came to a stop in front of Jim Beckett's house, Ryan caught a glimpse of his Captain, who was waiting on the porch. Propped awkwardly against the front door's wide open threshold, his shoulders shrugged and maneuvered in discomfort against his brace, giving a clear indicator of how long he might have standing sentry at that one spot. The sound of the car must have alerted him, however; for not a moment after the engine fell silent the elderly man rolled away from his perch and faced them. The frown he wore was the first thing the young Irishman noticed, the lack of any other vehicle in the driveway a close second. The hope that this was all just some big misunderstanding, that when they would arrive and Jim Beckett would be there waiting with a smile on his face and a few incriminating childhood photos of Kate Beckett for future blackmailing purposes, crumbled as quickly as the nerves in his stomach.

He looked to his left as he unbuckled his seat belt. Javier's hands were still clutched tightly around the steering wheel, his eyes narrowed and focused to some unknown point on the horizon before him.

Ryan cleared his throat. "Javier?"

His partner didn't move a muscle or give the slightest hint of recognition. There were times, as in any partnership, that Javier exhibited a stone-faced calm that would make any gambler green with envy. If it were any other day, anywhere else other than waiting in front of the house to their right, he would have chalked up this granite wall of expression marring his partner's features as business as usual. This wasn't the norm, where they were, what they were doing. All it took to see that, to belie the gravity of this moment was the one thing the Latino could never truly veil. In his eyes, a storm was raging.

They might not have the telepathic moments that Beckett and Castle had the panache for brandishing mid-conversation, but it didn't take a metaphysical leap into the ether between him and his best friend to see every single thought playing out like a long guilt-laden procession belied by feeble throw of his frown.

"Roy's waiting, man." Ryan said cautiously as he opened the car door. "You ready?"

Esposito's eyes tore to him and he gave a small snort. "Won't do much good if I said no, would it?"

Ryan shrugged in commiseration. No matter what feelings had shaken him for the better part of the past few days, nothing was stopping this now. Without another word between them, they got out of the car and made their way to the porch.

"You boys alright?" Montgomery asked as his gaze landed on Esposito.

The younger man remained silent for a moment, his eyes gauging and firm.

"This place was her world at one point, all of it." Esposito gestured over to his left to a worn wooden porch swing with a dozen or so tiny potted plants littered across its partially dry-rotted seat. "They probably taught her how to walk out here."

"And we're here…" Ryan mumbled.

"And we're here." Esposito echoed and cleared his throat as he turned away from the door. "We're poking around sacred ground, man, and right about now I'm feeling pretty disgusted with myself for that."

"Me too, boys. Me too." Montgomery gave a subtle nod. "But it can't be helped at this point and we all know it. If we want to help her end this once and for all, if we want to help her, Castle, and her dad get back home in one piece, we have to go in there."

"You haven't been in yet, sir?" Ryan motioned to the wide open door.

Montgomery shook his head as he ushered them by. "Nope."

"Then why-"

"It was already unlocked." Montgomery interjected and motioned for them to move. As they stepped inside, Ryan heard the door close behind him and not a second passed before his boss swept around in front of him, already charging his way to his first point of interest. "Alright, I want you boys to check every single inch of this place from top to bottom. If you find something, you remember every detail you can about it. We are not taking or moving anything out of here."

"Sir," Ryan called out. Turning his head only slightly away from a nightstand he was currently leafing through, Montgomery hummed in response.

"If the door was unlocked," the young detective started, as he motioned around the room, "shouldn't we get CSU down here to sweep for prints?"

The Captain stopped his search and gave a heavy sigh. He turned fully to the young Irishman with a tight expression donning his features. "We are searching for a friend here- we are _not_ conducting a criminal investigation. Am I clear?"

Before Ryan could reply, he felt a subtle nudge against his shoulder.

"Crystal." Esposito immediately replied as he set out into an adjoining room and disappeared behind its partially opened door, where only the faint glimpse of an edge of a desk could be seen.

The house was spacious, open and inviting. Every room blended into the other nearly seamlessly. He could see why Kate's parents had chosen this place. There was warmth to the rustic, dark colors of the walls, and the pictures of a beautiful family littering them only magnified that air. As he paced through the living room and towards an adjoining corridor, he could see the eyes of Kate everywhere. From picture to picture, these wide amber eyes full of mischief and uncommon fire followed him, tested him.

If it were at any other point, be it a Christmas party or just a quiet gathering among kindred, the young Irishman would have rather enjoyed the sites surrounding him. A younger, more jovial Kate was everywhere. She was smiling back at him in framed pictures, certificates, trophies; everywhere he looked his mind could easily conjure a fleeting ghost of her flitting through these rooms and halls, her only care to live and laugh. Everything connected to her. If it were at any other point, that would have made for some entertaining conversation fodder— at any other point, that wouldn't be such a monumental impasse. How were they supposed to find anything here of worth? If everything in sight meant something to both the father and daughter, then what could possibly be divined that could protect either of them?

No matter what the Captain had said about how this should be perceived, the instincts of a detective flipped on the moment he stepped into the nearest adjoining room. A haphazard stack of mail lay in a mound in the middle of a thin marble island in the far center of the room. His eyes narrowed on a refrigerator on the other side. Scores of newspaper clippings dotted its doors. Some looked crisp, new. Others were worn and frayed, their black ink looking more like blots of murky grey. But something was curious about their arrangement.

"Yo, Ryan! The Captain wants us." his partner yelled from the other room.

He took another step closer to the clippings. Taking out his phone, he began to snap pictures of each individual clipping, then angles of the array as a whole. The top half of the refrigerator looked like something straight from one of Beckett's own murder boards. There were two perfectly symmetrical columns on each side with many clippings lined down in a perfectly uniformed pattern.

_Justice Initiative a Boon for the City's Silent._

The name immediately rang a bell. They were clippings of Johanna's career. His eyes scanned over each one as he continued to snap more photographs, and in each new article, her name would appear.

_DNA Evidence Sets 15-year Convict Free_

_Money Laundering Trail Concludes with no Conviction_

Yet suddenly, something in the middle of these two rows caught his eye. It was another clipping. Unlike the others, the edges of this one was frayed and jagged as though it had been carelessly ripped from its periodical. There was no title; the background was a mess of blurry stone walls and potted plants. There was no indication to speak of as to what the context of this picture might have been, but he didn't need that to know that. It was the stone-faced picture of a middle aged man. Pallor, sunken cheeks. Thick, black-rimmed glasses. Nervous disposition. Above it, the name Krashinko.

Lunging over to the refrigerator door, Ryan snatched the photograph and immediately drew it closer to his scrutinizing eyes in disbelief. He could hear Esposito still calling for him, and he did open his mouth to reply a few times, but his voice seemed as stilled as his focus on the date scribbled in on the top right corner of the picture.

**April 7****th****, 2013**

"Four weeks ago… Wait." One of the detective's hands belied his confusion, opting to rub the back of his head as he shifted from the date to the face below it. A myriad of questions flew through his thoughts, but only one seemed to resonate over and over. Why was a picture of a man who would die two weeks after this date on Jim Beckett's refrigerator?

His grip tightened around the clipping as he shook his head, trying to waylay the implications falling like an avalanche of stones in his mind. These things, the connections, were spinning more and more out of their control, well beyond the boundaries between looking for a friend and tracking down a suspect. He had to get this to the Captain immediately- ignoring his implicit orders be damned.

He turned on his heels, ready to dash out of the kitchen in a headlong sprint- only to find both his partner and the Captain standing still as statues just beyond the threshold of the room's arched entryway.

"Get over here, Kevin. Whatever you've got in your hand can wait." Montgomery said in a strange voice. "There's something you two need to see in the Master Bedroom."

Without a word, Ryan fell in line behind them, slipping the paper clipping into his jacket pocket as he was led down the narrow hall, toward a partially lit room resting at its end.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Whether it was under the mercy of shock or instinct that had his service piece out of its holster, zeroing in on Oliver's throat in the blink of an eye, Nathaniel Brooks wasn't sure. But fury- a wakening fire in his nerves, prickling his spine, purging every fiber within him from their momentary paralysis of betrayal- that was certainly the catalyst coursing through his trigger finger as he fired the first three salvos of lead towards the gigantic traitor.

Each hollow-tipped round slammed into the glass with an ear-piercing thrum. Yet, the towering man still stood on the other side, his eyes calmly cast down to brown haired man he stalked towards, completely indifferent to the gunfire aimed right at him. Brooks should have known such a response would have been fruitless; after all, he was the one who gave implicit instructions for the glass to break from nothing short of tank artillery fire. Such things were necessary when housing the sickest minds the nation produced, but that didn't cross his mind. He didn't care to think of schematics as he watched Castle scramble across the ground until his back slammed against the wall right under the observation window. He didn't care for deliberating on improbabilities- and with a guttural roar muffled behind his tightening lips, three more rounds left his barrel. Each balked kill shot, each newly-flecked scar on the glass made the bastard's conniving smirk only deepen with sickly mirth, and the gun pressed against the playboy author's head dig in a little harder.

The last thing he saw before he spun right towards the door was Oliver whisper something silently to the shaken man cornered at his feet.

As he kicked open the O.R.'s door, he hoped that by the time he could to get inside the interrogation room, the only bullet leaving its chamber in the next few, precarious moments would be his.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"Move an inch and you join him." Oliver quietly hissed before tossing a flick of his head towards the lifeless body of Marcus DeWitt just a few steps to the large man's right.

As though he were rather insistent to prove a point, the gun barrel began to press so roughly into Castle's forehead, he winced in pain and shut his eyes in some vain hope to mitigate it. Suddenly, however, the pressure against his brows dissipated. Opening his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the gun still leveled directly at the center of his skull. One of Oliver's impossibly long arms stretched back towards the center of the room and within the blink of an eye, his thick hand latched to the top of the chair Beckett had occupied and promptly flung the diminutive piece of furniture effortlessly towards the room's only door.

Castle dared not move a muscle as he watched the man lumber over to the door and pick up the chair. With a rough and powerful jab upward, the sound of metal scraping against the concrete floor abruptly stopped when his assailant wedged its back under the door's handle.

"That should buy us some quality time; don't you think so, Mr. Castle?" The ogre gave an odd smile, when as if on cue, a sudden thud reverberated from the other side of the door, quickly followed by the rattling of its obstructed handle. "There's one more thing I need to do before we get to business."

The gun barrel vanished from between Castle's eyes and flashed towards the table in the center of the room. One deafening blast later, the microphone device sitting in its center burst into pieces.

"Whoa, whoa! Have you lost your mi-"Castle hastily shouted, but his inquiry was summarily cut short by the sound of another round of gunfire. This time, they came as the massive lumbering man casually stepped one leg over the crumpled body of Marcus DeWitt and sent two more rounds into the dead man's chest.

Then he paused, towering over the body between his feet like a conspiring child over an ant hill.

"Look at where you are, Mister Castle." Stepping back and away from DeWitt's lifeless body, Oliver tapped his gun on the side of his leg and grinned. "I'm not the only one who needs to consider that question."

Though he had become something of a veteran of situations such as this, Castle couldn't help but be acutely aware of all the times he had groveled to Beckett for a chance to go against a perp on his own, the one time she wanted him to, a suspect was dead and he may soon follow. Although he could still hear the violent shakes and rattles of the door handle a mere few feet from him, he knew there was no use in expecting Brooks to burst through and end this. He was at the ogre's mercy.

"You know," he said as he paced towards the author, peering down to his weapon with a curious frown. "I didn't think that he would talk. I was thinking, hell, there's no way these two girl scouts could get a Special Forces vet to crack… and then we'd be shipping his ass to some deep, dark hole so if did ever feel like talking, worms and dirt would be his only sounding board…"

The unmistakable sound of a clip of bullets clicking loose and leaving its chamber was something even the most studious crime novelists tried their best to… encapsulate. It wasn't that its blunted, hollow sound was hard to describe that was so tricky, no. Sounds were easy for him to impart; the visuals, quick and not quite climactic. But why go through so much trouble over an action that spans not even a single bat of an eye? What was so special about this singular moment that, for years and many more to come, writers dwelled upon it to the point of insanity?

"Your girlfriend… she's pretty good." The ogre leered; his gun stilled at his side.

Simply put- instinct is a very powerful thing. Scholars of suspense, as Castle so modestly would dub he and his brethren-in-macabre, often regaled that there are certain receptacles, baser in mode than the parts of the mind that's often boasted to separate man from beast. But in a single moment, where mortality hangs in a balance, it shuts down reasoning, the exalted, so-called higher thoughts. And for all the untold millennia that humanity cultivated these platitudes that the gift of thought supersedes everything including mortality- reason dies for a moment, evaporates like a single flame standing against a hurricane, replaced by a single, visceral thought:

Live.

"This conversation of ours would have been a little trickier if she were still here." Oliver hummed thoughtfully as he pulled a new clip out of his jacket pocket. "I would have really liked to have gotten to know her."

They say senses are heightened in that moment. A single smell becomes a potpourri of awareness. The skin prickles a little more sensitively even under the rush of the slightest breeze. Things no relaxed eye would ever see suddenly become sublime. And sound… they say everything is heard, down to every drop of blood thundering its way through what suddenly seems like a very frail and very vulnerable shell of bone and flesh.

"Tell me something. Do you know what it feels like to believe in something?" Oliver crouched down in front of him, tapping the barrel of his gun on the author's leg. "And I mean truly believing. So much so, that you are more than willing to sacrifice_ everything_ for it?"

Scholars of a loftier nature called it fight or flight; the intangible, cosmic inertia of survival or surrender. It's primitive, but that was exactly why it is so effective, and yet at the same time, so hard to capture in ink. In Castle's mind, mankind had been around guns long enough for its mere presence to have certain _effects_ on the human condition. A quickened pulse, a dilated sense of one's own mortality- the clicking sound of a fresh jacket of bullets locking into place inside of a hand-cannon could tear asunder even the most unassailable poise.

Unless it was for research, of course.

"Everything?" Castle repeated with a timbre of calm he was rather pleased to find within himself. He tilted his head and smirked, looking up and squarely into the ogre's glinting eyes. "Your life I presume? Or should I say, the few seconds you have left in it?"

The confusion muddling his thoughts multiplied when the massive man threw his head back and began laughing hysterically.

"Life?" He somehow barked through his laughter. "That's a very selfish way to think, even for a playboy like you. I'll tell you what; a very wise man once gave me a bit of advice that I'm going to give to you before the old man barges in on this discussion, Mister Castle."

"Take a step back…" The giant of a man rose back to his full height and took once pace back. "…and look closer."

Castle's effortless calm quickly turned to confusion as he watched the ogre gently lay his gun down on the interrogation table.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Something was wrong.

Ryan could feel it the moment he stepped over the threshold and into the very last room. Both his partner and his boss ushered him ahead. He looked back over his shoulder, back to each of them frozen at the doorway, wondering why they weren't joining him.

Brushing the thought aside, he turned his attention to the center of the well-lit room, where a rather plush looking bed resided.

In the middle of the bed, an opened metal box with a combination dial lay, empty of any content whatsoever. To its left, was another container- though the contents of this one were painfully obvious. The dark grey foam that lined its insides bore the unmistakable imprint of a revolver. And scattered haphazardly on and around the casing were dozens of high caliber shells.

"Guys?" Ryan called to them in a careful whisper as he came to a stop at the side of the bed. "What am I looking at?"

"We're not sure about that box, bro." Esposito said.

"There was a very old bank statement lying by the combination safe." Montgomery said. "It's for a safety deposit account."

"Traceable?" Ryan asked quickly, his eyes firing between the elderly man and a strangely subdued Esposito.

"It's traceable." Montgomery confirmed.

A huge sigh of relief swept from the young detective. There was a lead- finally- they had something to go on.

Esposito and Montgomery didn't seem to share his excitement.

"Then what in the hell are we waiting for?" Ryan proclaimed, his free hand already fishing through his jacket pocket for his phone. "Let's go."

The two men before shared a long look. Then, Montgomery held up his hand. "One more thing, Kevin…"

Without warning Esposito twisted on his heels and marched out of sight, the echoes of his heavy steps ringing like a gong in the Irishman's ears.

"He left this beside the letter to Kate." The Captain's frown deepened, his usually commanding tone fleeted into a somber breath. He reached inside his jacket and pulled some papers that had been neatly folded together.

The young detective immediately frowned when he noticed something else: his boss was now wearing gloves.

Montgomery held the papers out, but not with an expectant air. There was defeat in his posture, an unabated weakness visible in the grip his hand had on the proffered documents. It was as though whatever information was inside those pages were siphoning every ounce of life out of him.

"It's a copy of Jim's last will and testament."

Ryan froze, unsure of whether to be believe he had heard Roy correctly.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

His will? What in the hell was he possibly thinking leaving this out, the suddenly very rattled and very bewildered detective internally wondered. Jim was the father of a woman who was arguably the best detective in the city; surely he would have known what leaving all of this on display like some metaphorical manifesto would look like to people who put killers behind bars.

Then, all the air left his lungs as his hand coiled around the picture of Paul Krashinko now resting in his pocket.

…_No_. Ryan huffed, shaking his head in disbelief. _That could not be_…

Montgomery shook his head before extending a single hand towards something beyond Ryan's right shoulder.

"Look at the top of the bed."

The moment he turned towards the bed, his eyes zeroed in on what his boss was referring to, rather, the implication of what the array of evidence filling his eyes spelled out. The effect was instantaneous. A wave of dread went straight down to his feet, nearly fettering him in place no matter how much every cognizant fiber of his body wanted to rush headlong back to the squad car.

"Go to the precinct and get ready. We're coming back with a search warrant, Kevin." He heard Montgomery say somehow through his tumultuous thoughts.

Oh hell, he thought, gripping the clipping tighter and tighter. His stomach began twisting and tumbling as one single train of thought roared louder and louder. If the will, the strange behavior, or the object the Captain had just shown him wasn't enough, this picture, this scrap in his hand would leave no doubt- Jim would almost certainly be behind bars the moment he was found. He would be charged with murder.

…But.

He hadn't shown it to the Captain.

He began to turn back to where Montgomery stood; his fist already in the midst of leaving his pocket, ready to brandish the paper clipping, to drive the final nail into the denial all of them had been too afraid to admit. Then, something curious and entirely alien to every honorable regard he held for his job and its protocol occurred: he paused. His fist came to a stop as his knuckles brushed underneath the pocket's outer seems before slowly inching back inside. Steeling his expression, he turned the rest of the way towards his boss, a demand for his next set of instructions already prepared to leave the young man. Yet, threshold was now vacant.

He breathed a sigh of relief, desperately thankful for a moment to collect his thoughts, to collect himself before the all-out war between his morality and his loyalty threatened to upend his nerves. However, whatever peace he was beginning to make within himself was brought crashing back down to reality when he heard the bellowing voice of his partner. Not the distance or the walls between them did anything to muffle Esposito's growing string of curses or his angered bursts of denial.

Denial…

Ryan began charging from the room as soon as he heard the front door of the house open and shut with a rumbling force in the distance. Yet suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and looked back to the pillow on the bed, back to the last piece of evidence resting on its top.

_What are you going to do, Kevin? What are you doing to do?_

Clenching his jaw, he dashed outside in time to see his partner already climbing in the driver's seat of their car. As he shut the front door behind him, he made his way to the car and silently climbed in. They drove away, and he couldn't help but look back one more time to Kate's childhood home, where his thoughts still remained- back inside that room, still searing the image of a thick, folded note lying on the pillow into his memory. There, a message from a father still waited for a daughter, a message with a simple phrase scrawled sloppily over its middle

_Katie, please forgive me._

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Beckett marched out of the 12th precinct elevator and into the bullpen, leaving Thatcher scurrying in her wake.

She made a bee-line straight for her computer, completely disregarding the strange looks or the otherwise amusing calls of 'welcome back' from her colleagues. She was still too angry to return any of their pleasantries, too focused on the contents of Burbury's ledger to consider the ramifications of her sudden reappearance.

From the moment she ordered Thatcher to drive to precinct, her mind had already resolved to not leave the city again until Raglan was in front of her, answering for his sins- unless of course, she had to hunt the bastard down elsewhere. In her mind, that was her only drive at this point, and nothing or nobody came before that.

Her heart, however, had different ideas and quickly took offense to that notion.

_"You know him." Castle said carefully. "Is that it?"_

_She didn't say a word, only bowed her head and gave a slight nod of confirmation._

_"That's all you're going to give me?" He paused for a moment. "We have a living affiliation to Rathborne chained to a chair in there, and you want to leave?"_

_"Go back inside, Castle." She said bitingly, immediately regretting the forcefulness of her voice._

_"Do you honestly expect me to go back in there and pick the interrogation right back up where we left off when you're out here on the verge of detonating?" He shot back with an anger she had never heard from his lips before._

_All at once, as the last word left his mouth, the last vestiges of patience she had been holding on to vanish under an eruption of every single ounce of frustration she was feeling. From the case, for her mother, from him._

_"Detonating? What do you think will happen if I do go back in there, Castle?" She roared, still not daring to meet his eyes. "Do you think I'll magically be all sunshine and rainbows the moment I close the IR door behind me? This isn't a damn story of yours and I am not a fucking robot!"_

_"You're right, you're absolutely right. The woman I write about, the one that __I know__ doesn't run. The woman I know might be a little guarded, but she doesn't shut me out completely over a name in a book-"_

_Without warning, she turned to face him, revealing every emotion she had ever kept under lock and key, behind this impregnable wall he had somehow slipped through. She let all the pain fill her eyes that she had carried since the day her mother was murdered._

_"I. Am. Emotionally. Compromised, Castle!"_

"Castle…" She whispered, jarring her thoughts from her memory. The name hissed under her breath as though it was some balm her feelings needed to recount before her focus swallowed them too.

"_Do you trust me?" She turned away from him as soon as the collective noise of new sets of feet began crunching their way towards her._

_Caught off-guard by his silence, she called to him again. _

"_Rick?"_

"_You know I do." He answered immediately._

_It was then that she felt it. That wall that the man before had somehow undermined was rebuilding somewhere inside of her. One by one, the litany of emotions that coursed through her from seeing Raglan's name in the ledger slowly, steadily, deadened. The tears were drying from her cheeks, her resolve for vengeance now the only occupant in her heart. Yet, right as she was about to face him and send him away, she ducked her head, letting her long wavy mane of hair partially shield her expression from her partner's piercing gaze._

"_Then believe me when I say that you are better off here," she held up a hand, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he would protest. Taking a moment to let her words sink in, she pointed back to the Day Care. "And I need you here more than I need you with me."_

She left him.

Curiously enough, in that moment she didn't know what shocked her more: the simple fact of that statement, or the unexpected prickling of regret throughout her body on a level she had scarcely felt before. This strange sensation of remorse was new, frightening, and delved far deeper than even her internal musings cared to name. Why in the hell did she leave him to fend for himself- against the Rumpelstiltskin of Special Forces, a man who had been professionally trained to be a proverbial Fort Knox when it came to interrogations?

What did he do to deserve that apart from being worried about her? What was she think-

_No_, she thought as she shook her head. She couldn't think about that or of _him_ right now. That was an entirely different matter, wasn't it?

"Focus, Kate" she muttered under her breath as she began typing furiously into the city's officer database.

"Detective…" Thatcher tapped her shoulder. "Do you um… what do you want me to do?"

"Go wait in the car," was her curt, distracted reply.

"But-"

Her eyes immediately darkened when an error message suddenly appeared on the screen.

**Inquiry Not Found**.

"I said, go wait in the car." She growled through clenched teeth as she stared at the blank screen.

"Right… leaving now."

His records weren't in the database. She blew out a steady, frustrated breath. Thinking back to the last image she had of Detective John Raglan over a decade ago- speckles of grey already peppering hair, his despondent, uncaring demeanor discussing grizzly murder- the job had jaded him in time, but perhaps the grey belied a man in the twilight of his professional career. If that were the case, that could only mean one thing. His records were still strictly a paper file.

She had to contact archives.

She tiredly picked up the phone, an Castle-worthy excuse to see a retired cops files already formulating in her mind, when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Beckett," Montgomery said in a rather surprised voice before he came to a stop next to her desk. "What are you doing here?"

Beckett looked up to her boss right as Ryan and Esposito walked by, both of whom looked straight into her eyes before turning away and going to their desks without a greeting.

"And Kate?" Montgomery's brows furrowed as looked around the bullpen. "…Where's Castle?"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

AN: Finally found time to finish this chapter! I'll be working on the next one through the weekend, so hopefully I will have it up by the time Monday comes around. The next one will be titled, 'Seeing is Believing'.


	32. Seeing is Believing: Part I

**Chapter 32 – Seeing is Believing: Part I**

"Well, this is it." Oliver said with a long sigh as he looked back to Castle. "Wrong place, wrong time, right?"

"What am I saying…?" The agent paused for a moment, his fingers tapping idly on the gun's barrel. "You know the game."

"An avid reader, huh?" Castle said coolly.

Oliver cocked his head slightly. "You're pretty calm for a dead man, Mr. Castle."

"Well, speaking of dead men…" Castle replied as his eyes swept over the door.

The banging and jolted movements of the interrogation room's door suddenly intensified. What was just a dull thud seconds earlier had now grown to a strengthening relentless pounding of metal on metal; chances were quite high Brooks had opted to ram the door open with something a little less forgiving than his shoulder. Good, Castle thought. All he had to do was stall the ogre just a little bit longer.

"Why did you kill him?"

There had been many times that question had left Castle's lips purely out of curiosity. Whether it was said in the aftermath of Beckett breaking a hardened criminal or in the late hours of the night in the midst of spinning a new, twisted tale, it had always seeped to the forefront of his thoughts with an uncomplicated edge of inquisitiveness. It was the boy dreamer in him, as his mother once said. The one thing that was untouchable by all the darkness and death that enamored the storyteller in him so. That unflagging innocence was his firewall from ever truly becoming a jaded and withered soul who harbored nothing but contempt for the shadowy aspects of humanity. He could write of murder; plot and ponder sinners and psychos, and seldom was that innocence imperiled.

This time, however, disdain played the edge in his voice, cutting through the thickening tension between him and his captor. A part of him briefly wondered if it was for selfish reasons; after all, no writer ever wanted a thickening plot prematurely snuffed out. a writer having his plot snatched from his hands with one bullet. Marcus could have been the key that he so desperately sought that would finally free Beckett from the bonds of her tragic past.

Yeah, he thought. That warranted hatred. A vengeful lover's worth, in fact.

"Why did you kill Marcus? And why am I not dead yet as well?" Castle repeated, turning his forceful gaze back to the giant.

"Do you really think I'm going to tell you that?" Oliver scoffed as he paced before him.

"Pardon the pun, but it was worth a shot." Castle noted, motioning his head towards the dead body.

The agent gave a hearty laugh, angering the writer even more.

This didn't make sense. Ignoring the fact that he had only met Oliver a handful of hours ago, the author couldn't help but wonder how his uncanny panache for reading people had failed so terribly when it came to the Day Care's only guard. At first glance, the man before him seemed something of a walking firewall for this place, the very kind of man who followed orders without the bat of a lash. Every stereotypical trait Castle had ever used when writing the strong-arm, an all the muscle and none the mouth enforcer, this guy had them in spades. To be stationed here, to be trusted with the protection of such a dangerously far-removed haven should speak volumes about his loyalty.

And now because of his lapse in judgment, a man was dead and he was at the mercy of a killer. How could he have been so wrong?

"You really are a creative man." Oliver slightly bowed his head as he came to stop in front of the author once more.

_Better yet_, he thought not a moment later, why wasn't the giant agent holding his gun anymore?

"Maybe that is why you're alive right now, Mr. Castle." He continued with a strange smile. "You're nothing but humor when you should be terrified. I respect that."

"My book signings have prepared me well." Castle panned, quickly glancing over to the table to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

"Before this ends, tell me one thing." The agent paused, tossing a glance towards the door. "I really want to know what would possess a writer to wade right into this kind of shit-storm without an umbrella. Man to man, what's your angle here? Is it the supermodel with a badge you came in with?"

"The free coffee," Castle shrugged. "Catching psychos…"

"I guess I'm among those elite few now, huh?" Oliver replied.

"Well, I could be wrong here, but firing a gun at the workplace won't be doing any favors for your next psych evaluation. But don't flatter yourself. There's a big difference between a nutcase and a stooge. _You_ are a stooge." Feeling particularly proud of his response, he moved to settle a little against the wall, but froze when from the corner of his eyes, the sluggish giant whipped into a blur of motion. His world exploded into crippling pain when he felt the heel of a gargantuan boot connect with his forehead, and not a scant second later, his head slammed back into the wall. In an instant, his vision clouded with thousands of blinding white dots. The world about him rocked and tilted with dizzying relentlessness. For a moment, he was sure he would black out. Then he heard the ogre's voice cut through his muddled senses. In a daze he looked over to the agent, whose massive hand was now hovering a hair's breadth over the handle of the gun.

"Ah," Oliver said warningly, his hand cautiously returning to his side. "Killing you is supposed to be out of the question, but I said nothing about crippling you."

Castle rolled his eyes at the logic in Oliver's words and began to push himself back against the uncomfortable wall. That is, those words they sank in.

_Wait… out of the question_?! To say Castle was somewhat shell-shocked by his threat, rather what was supposed to be a threat would have been a dire understatement.

"Why is killing me out of the question?" He yelped, not quite believing he had just asked that. It was then he saw it in the ogre's eyes, a tell-tale flicker of light, an almost imperceptible widening of his gaze. It was the exact tell many suspects had belied to Beckett, the very same crack in the impenetrable facades he always searched for right along with her.

Agent Oliver had said too much.

No longer did his eyes dance between the abandoned gun and its owner, nor did he care to register the sound of the chair wedged against the door gradually scraping longer and deeper gashes into the floor. His eyes trained to Oliver's face, searching for a sign, anything that would divine his enigmatic intent.

"Answer me!" Castle shouted demandingly, uncaringly leaning forward from the wall. Every muscle in his legs twitched in anticipation, ready to hurtle away from his spot at the impending draw of Oliver's pistol. To his further bewilderment, it never came.

"Why can't you kill-?"

His voice suddenly seized in his throat. His eyes grew from wide and panicked to utterly terrified as he watched Oliver simply smile as he snatched and promptly holstered his gun.

"I said it is _supposed_ to be."

Then from the inside of his jacket, he pulled out a single, oddly shaped device. Then, he began to mumble under his breath.

"What are you doing…?" Castle whispered. He took in the sight of the tiny chrome implement no larger than matchbook, watching a pale, cloudy white liquid slosh around inside a container making its middle with growing alarm. He glanced over at the door, its hinges rattled harder and harder now. It would break soon- perhaps seconds away- but that wasn't enough time. Then as his eyes shot back to the strange object in Oliver's hand, the agent snapped away its lower half and tossed the chrome shell to the floor. A light caught something long and thin extending from its bottom, and immediately, a myriad of horrific ends crashed into his thoughts.

As if to mock him, not a moment after the agent brought the device up to his scrutinizing gaze, the hazy yellow light flashed once more against the newly revealed needle.

"What's that for…" Castle quaked, unable to keep his nerves in check any longer. He was suddenly aware of a throbbing pain in shoulders from where he had unconsciously been trying to push himself through the concrete wall. Was this it, he thought angrily. Every nerve in his body was ready to pounce, ready to tear Oliver limb from limb much in way he dealt with Marcus back in Rose Hill. Yet the damage from the agent's boot left his muscles lax and as potent as jelly. If it weren't for the terror completely engulfing his mind, he thought to laugh and cry at the futility of it all.

_"Cas- Rick," she stared at him intently. "Be careful… okay?"_

_For some reason quickly escaping him, he didn't exactly know how to reply. Something deep and glimmering was shifting to life in her eyes, something that looked beyond a mere reflection of concern or worry she held so many times. It was enough to render him speechless and untrusting of his own ever-inspired instincts. Unable to take his eyes off hers, he simply nodded his reply._

_He was wrested from his thoughts when she smiled softly and turned back to the door._

_"Wait!" Castle exclaimed, causing her to stop again. He searched for something to say, something to keep her there just a little bit longer._

_"I've got your back, Kate." He said without a hint of doubt. "I won't let you down."_

_Her eyes lingered a moment on him. "You never have, Rick. We make a great team."_

_With that, she nodded and slipped fluidly into the house._

A pair of beautiful amber eyes filled his thoughts, and memory upon memory of his quest to see them shine played like a faceted collage further and further back into their story. Through those images, words like devotion, courage, and fate floated to and fro. There was her smile, at first but a flicker in an impenetrable dark in those early days— now, now it was as warm and radiant as the sun. From a single spark ignited by their mutual passion for mystery, rose a flame so vibrant and unquenchable, that no longer was there a shadow in his memories her light did not touch. Those moments of laughter, sadness, serendipity and worry, however, they weren't what suddenly made his eyes burn with unshed tears. Those memories paled in reflection to the singular thought that he had let her down.

After all, what could define love better than that?

All he wanted was her to prove to her that he was more than just a plucky sidekick. That he could stand with her, by her… maybe even protect her. Then maybe she would see. What they had was something rare. What they could be was…

What they could be…

For all the eloquence and all the words he had conjured to paint a world of the poetry she embodied, for all the ways his brilliant mind could detail every flawless and maddening inch of her, in that moment as he watched the agent pace around before him, it was with a heavy heart that he realize those memories, and not her, would be the last thing he saw.

The author had to don a fond smile with that sentiment. He couldn't think of a more tragic ending for this crime.

He closed his eyes, willing his head to cease its spinning, waiting for the sudden sting of a needle piercing his skin. Tighter and tighter they clenched while he beckoned images of his beautiful daughter, his mother the hero, and a pair of soft, emerald and honey speckled eyes to carry him into oblivion.

But then a distant sound entered his thoughts.

Oliver's mantra was growing in volume. Castle held his breath and strained his ears, catching bated fragments, rushed syllables under labored heaves of air. Then eyes shot open when one word filled room with the gut-piercing clarity of a knife.

Desert.

"They died in the desert… they died in the desert… they died in the desert…" Over and over, the ogre repeated the startlingly familiar phrase, almost as if he were reciting a prayer…

_Or_, a voice inside Castle's mind screamed.

… Or he was giving his own last rites.

"Oh, my god." Castle quaked. With a speed the author rarely showed, he slid his feet underneath his thighs and burst to his feet. Ignoring the tremble in his legs, he cast away the rush of faintness from his shoulders, and then he lept from the wall towards the ogre.

But he was too late, too slow.

At once, the door exploded open with a deafening crack, and Brooks rushed in with his gun already training to his target. Oliver placed the syringe between his teeth, his eyes never leaving Castle's as he violently tore off his suit jacket. The author looked on in abject horror, when as if in slow motion, Oliver rolled up the sleeve of his shirt.

The author tilted on his feet, coming to a jarring halt just before his body came between Brooks' gun and suicidal agent.

"Wait! Castle pleadingly shouted as he looked to Brooks, shooting his arms out towards both of the agents, desperately trying to placate them both. "Stop! Stop!"

But he was too late, too slow.

Time slowed to a tormenting crawl as he turned his focus back to Oliver and watched on helplessly as he jabbed the syringe into the bend of his massive arm.

A guttural roar of pure agony, lilted with a tortuous wail that seemed to rip away the very walls of his throat, exploded from the ogre's lungs.

Seconds later, Agent Oliver collapsed next to the man he killed just moments before, joining him in death.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

**AN**: I wanted to have this posted around this time yesterday. However, due to the effects of Sandy I had to wait a while to post this.

The general theme behind how I wanted this chapter to pan out follows the old adage, "It's all fun and games until somebody gets killed". I hope I pulled it off. This is a shorter chapter the normal mainly because this scene was so seismic as far as Castle's development goes (with the case, with his feelings about Beckett, and his own insecurities), that it had to be on its own.

The next update will be a very, very large chapter and it will be up by Saturday.

Finally to all of you fellow East Coasters and every single one of you around the Great Lakes, please stay safe.


	33. Seeing is Believing: Part II

**Chapter 33 – Seeing is Believing: Part II**

When Ryan slipped into the office and closed the door behind him, Esposito wordlessly greeted his partner with a nod. Though his blue eyes were heavy with fatigue, a gleam of pure inquisitiveness, promise of countless questions still rose to meet him. Naturally, he went with the most pressing one first.

"So…" The young Irishman whispered lowly as he lifted a small section of blinds to peer out into the bullpen. "Is there a reason Beckett is doing laps around Karpowski's desk?"

"Cardio?" offered Esposito with a smirk as he too took quick peek. He shifted his gaze to the lanky guy she arrived with, who was staring morosely at the break room from nearby the elevator.

"Too much coffee?" Ryan replied.

"Her? Nah, bro. No such thing." Esposito shook his head and pointed towards the elevator. "Maybe she finally offed Castle and hombre-on-a-stick over there helped her stash the body."

"Oh, you think so?" his partner took a glance over to Beckett's still unknown companion. "Meh, Castle could take that guy."

"True." Esposito nodded sagely. "That ain't saying much though. Perlmutter could take that guy."

A set of chuckles that followed promptly withered to a fit of coughs when both shared a looked over to their stone-faced boss.

"Right," the suddenly embarrassed detective muttered. "Pressing issues."

Montgomery wasn't laughing, cracking a smile or anything that resembled his typically indifferent demeanor and it didn't take much of a stretch to fathom why. There had always been a paternal element in his character where Beckett was concerned. Some days, Esposito chalked it up to the Captain being the one who had brought a much younger, brasher Officer Beckett under his wing and nurtured the raw preternatural talent she possessed into the juggernaut before them now. If he were honest with himself though, there were other times when he wondered if in Roy's worst nightmares, be it of his family and his own daughter, the tragedy of Kate's past stared right back at him.

"I've asked her to wait there. She looks like she needs to cool down." Roy paused for a moment. "… And I needed some time to think."

Theories and reasons aside, the protective father inside his boss had always been subtle. He was stern when he needed to be. He tempered his praises even when his eyes were bursting with pride. He'd always been there to defend her, even when the chica was too focused to realize she wasn't doing it herself. But now…

"Think about what, boss?" asked Ryan.

"It's been a long time since I've seen her that wound up. A long, long time. I just need to know that she's safe- that Castle is safe." Montgomery admitted quietly as he peered through the blinds, his gaze seemingly locked on Beckett's restless form. "I need to know where her mind is at right now."

It didn't take much of a stretch to infer what he was implying. The detective glanced back to the Captain's desk. Resting front and center, far removed from every other file and mound of papers as though the old man was afraid it would contaminate the rest, was their very own devil in all its neatly wrapped 8x11 glory.

The game had changed.

"So you plan on telling her, boss?" Esposito turned his attention back to the bullpen and watched Beckett continue to pace in wide circles around Karpowski's desk. "About the will and letter, I mean?"

Montgomery remained silent for a few seconds. "Yeah. I do."

"Alright…" He bit his lip before quietly sighing. "Alright."

After coming so close to telling her himself, Esposito thought he would feel relief upon hearing those words, but nothing of the sort was balming his nerves at all. Relief- that was for when he thought they had a snowball's chance in hell of finding Papa Beckett before things got hairy. That was before they found his will and handwritten letter. Now all he had to look forward to was a crushing guilt. Well, that and maybe a few fresh bullet wounds courtesy of the Beckett caboose out there.

Ryan gave a heavy sigh. "She's going to kill us."

"Maybe we deserve it." Esposito said with a shrug. "We're not even close to knowing what Papa Beckett was up to or where he went."

_Or even if he's still there, _he mentally reminded himselfand grimaced at the thought. It would've been one thing to spring such a revelation on Beckett with some semblance of an idea where her father might have hopped off. Her fury would have still been horrific to behold- hell, he wouldn't blame her either. The problem was that wasn't half of it now. What worried him far more was that they didn't even have a clue where _she_ had been. Due in large part to her curious adeptness at dodging every question before Montgomery told her to wait out in the bullpen, they didn't know if she was okay or what had her acting so… well, rattled. Now, he had to tell her he completely dropped the ball when he should've listened to his gut, losing the most important thing in her life in the process and from the looks of it, it was going to be akin to kicking a cobra. Now, her rage was going to be biblical. He knew he should be worried about Castle, but the only thing on his mind was whether Beckett would use a gun on them or employ a more creative approach.

"So there was nothing in the letter hinting at his whereabouts?" Montgomery inquired.

"I haven't read it." Ryan answered before nudging Esposito with his shoulder. "I thought one of you did."

"Did you?" Esposito asked as he shared a quick glance with the Captain. "Huh, I guess no one has."

A few moments passed, and then Ryan spoke up from his left once more. "Do you guys think we should…?"

Esposito immediately shot his partner a reprimanding glare. "No way, bro. I'm not touching that thing."

"I can't." Montgomery without a hint of hesitation not a moment later. "I just… something tells me whatever is inside that letter is too personal."

"Or it could lead us to him," Ryan ventured before lightly tapping his fingers against the window.

"Nah. We've done enough damage. If something's in there, it'll be her that decides what to do about it." The Captain replied before looking over to the Irishman. "Call her in here, Kevin."

Esposito took a deep breath as he watched Ryan slip out into the bullpen and bee-line through the bustle of other cops and colleagues towards Beckett. No matter how his thoughts tried to rationalize that they were doing the right thing, he still couldn't shake the feeling that he was witnessing the march of a one-man firing squad close in on its quarry. Ryan's lips moved a few times- and to his confusion- she simply continued pacing, seemingly engrossed in her own world. A few moments passed before he then tapped her on her shoulder, and suddenly she whirled around on the Irishman wide-eyed and unaware as though she had been jolted from a dream. After a quick, indecipherable exchange, he motioned her to the office.

She marched passed Ryan with a determined gait all too familiar for his liking. This Beckett, this single-minded juggernaut was nothing new. Yet, something gave him pause. There was something different about her hidden beneath the veneer of strength she had clad herself in for as long as he knew her. It was… another kind of familiarity, a constant seen all too often flitting through the walls of this precinct. It was energy in the tense, baleful awareness in her expression, in the muscles of her jaw flexing and clenching as though it were quelling some terrible secret from ever drawing sound. Her arms remained stiffly at her side as she strode closer; she looked uncomfortable, plucked out of her element. Yet, she wasn't looking at her destination. He followed her line of sight, and in an instant, something else entirely sent warning bells off in his ears, something that made him have second thoughts on whether she was ready for what was coming.

Her eyes weren't leaving Castle's empty chair.

_Well_, he thought, _that's new_.

With little preamble and none of her usual flare, Beckett marched to the chair in front of Montgomery's desk and sat down with and unnerving, distant glaze in her eyes, clutching a small leather booklet- a journal perhaps, tightly in her hand. Each man in the room looked at her expectantly, waiting for some story to come spilling out, some explanation over her sudden appearance, yet she remained silent, pensive. About something or someone, Esposito wasn't even going to begin to guess. The simple, troubling fact was wherever she was, it wasn't here. Whatever was occupying her thoughts, it most certainly wasn't them.

"So do you have any updates for us?" Montgomery asked as he moved behind his desk.

"I do," she admitted quietly. "But, I don't really know where to begin."

"Alright, well we've got all day." Montgomery gave a noncommittal shrug as he sat down. "How about you start from the top."

"Marcus DeWitt's interrogation was a total bust," she said after a moment. "I thought we had a goldmine on our hands, instead he turned out to be our very own Rip Van Winkle."

"The fairy tale guy?" Ryan piped in.

Beckett nodded slowly. "And instead of sleeping for 20 years, this champ has been hiding under a proverbial rock since Desert Storm."

"Whoa, you serious?" Esposito remarked, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. "How'd he do that?"

"Like I told you guys before," she shrugged before continuing. "He faked his death and went into hiding. He refused to give any detail about it. I honestly thought I had him pegged down, but I had no idea. No idea at all… He fired on us at Rose Hill because he thought we were Rathborne. He thought we were there to take his brother away from him."

"Johnny Vong," Montgomery said flatly. "Marcus thought you were there for a dead man."

"That's the problem." Beckett looked up to the Captain and let out a sigh. "He didn't know Vong was dead."

"Well, couldn't that just be chalked up to him being out of the loop?" Ryan said. "I mean, you said it yourself. The guy fell off the face of the Earth for a long time."

"That's what I thought too. Well, at first anyway." Beckett shook her head. "He went on to explain that he'd received a letter a little over a week before we showed up, telling him to stay put, and that his brother was on the way to meet him with a message."

"Does he know who sent it?" Ryan asked, voicing the very same thought running through his mind.

"Yeah…" She paused for a moment, and that's when he noticed she was tapping her fingers on the small booklet resting on her lap. "Our main vic- Senator Alvin Burbury, who also apparently threatened to kill him some undetermined time ago because DeWitt was blowing the whistle to the Feds about Coonan's drug cartel."

"You mean Rathborne." Esposito added. "He was blowing the whistle on Rathborne."

Beckett nodded. "The existence of the whole group."

"That doesn't make any sense." Ryan said with a thoughtful tone. "First, how did Burbury know this guy was still alive? And seriously, what made him change his mind about killing him?"

"My best guess?" Beckett bit her lip before continuing. "We now know that Burbury knew he was nearing the end of his life in a very violent way many days before he was killed- the call from Paul Krashinko and one to the Assistant D.A. corroborate that. So, knowing that Burbury was a card-carrying member of Rathborne, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that when Coonan died, the Senator was still chummy with the group. He was invested in their secrecy back then, so keeping Marcus silent was the difference between a life of power and life in prison. It had to be done."

"But when he cracked," she then made a small gesture with her hands. "When he and Krashinko got into whatever inevitably led to their deaths, he knew that there were still two exposed remnants of their existence out there, Marcus and Johnny. Something tells me that before Coonan was killed and Johnny was locked up, whatever way Burbury found out that somebody was tipping off the Feds was the exact same way he found out Marcus existed- and that could only be from Johnny himself."

"You think Johnny squealed on his own brother?" Esposito asked unsurely. "Think about it for a sec. Burbury was a Senator- a _U.S Senator_. Who's to say that Rathborne doesn't have a few more nuts stored away in the tallest trees? Anybody could have tipped Burbury off if that's the case."

Montgomery scratched his chin for a moment and replied, "In all likelihood, I don't see why they wouldn't. If others knew though, then don't you think they would've killed Marcus and Johnny before this whole mess went down?"

"Um, guys." Ryan said after a moment, drawing their attention. "Burbury could've been an enforcer. I mean, yeah having a few loose ends about the existence of your little club would hit every ear it has, but maybe it was Burbury's job at that point in time to put a lid on potential leaks."

"… But he didn't kill them." Beckett said pointedly. "Even when Marcus refused to shut up, he _did not kill_ _him_. We're talking about a group that was waist deep in dozens of international trafficking offenses back then and who knows what else they did for money, power, or muscle. That goes far beyond high stakes, Kevin. That's deep into the territory of obey or die."

"Maybe they were meant to be collateral." His partner reasoned as he absently fiddled with something that sounded like paper in his jacket pocket. "Maybe Marcus and Johnny had and still have something- some information- that kept them alive until Burbury sent Johnny to Savannah."

"Wouldn't both of them would be dead right now if that were the case?" Beckett replied with a vehement shake of her head. "Johnny was already dead when we got there and his murder reeked of premeditation. So if they knew he was going there, then they knew who he was going to see. It stands to reason that our unnamed killer would have put down Marcus as well when he had the chance."

"But-"

"Kevin, she's a got a point." Montgomery interjected. "Killing two birds with one stone is a popular phrase for a reason. Enforcer or not, the only thing that makes sense is Burbury roughing up Johnny until he sang."

"Well, he was singing like a canary once he thought you guys were releasing him from lock-up." Ryan recalled. "I mean that was a couple of years ago, but I still remember how terrified he was of Coonan coming for him."

"He was," Beckett agreed. "And I'm pretty sure all it took for him to give up who he'd been blabbering to was Burbury pulling the same thing on him as he did on Marcus. Once the Senator caught wind that the Feds were sniffing around the group, he went to their weakest link in the drug triangle's chain and just put two and two together. Fast-forward to two weeks ago, when Burbury resolved that he wanted Rathborne taken down, he goes to seek the help of the only two people that stood a chance to do it."

"That sounds reasonable." Montgomery said. "But that still doesn't explain why Marcus was his last line of defense."

"Maybe he's right then," Esposito nodded over to Ryan. "The only reason Burbury would send that 'died in the desert' message to Marcus via his brother is two-fold. First, Johnny is the messenger so Marcus would trust the source. And secondly, the source- Burbury- knew that Marcus knew what to do with that message."

"So did he?" Ryan cleared his throat and looked directly to Beckett with an uneasy expression. "Did he know what to do with the message?"

To the Latino's surprise, Beckett simply shook her head.

"He said the message didn't make sense."

"And you believed him?" Montgomery asked curiously.

With a sigh escaping her lips, she nodded once. "I did and still do. He was genuinely shocked when we told him that Burbury was a Senator. He was under the impression that Burbury was still some small town commissioner. So when, um… we asked him to decipher the message, its meaning was just as confusing to him. We did not have anywhere else to go after that point."

"Really?" Montgomery said after a moment. "As much as it would flatter me to think that you came by to take these two off my hands for a while, I know you wouldn't risk your cover for that. So, you had to find something that would bring you here without Castle, right?"

No sooner than when the author's name left the Captain's mouth, Beckett's features hardened. Montgomery must have noticed the change as well. He took a scant glance to him and Ryan before turning back to Beckett as a look of concern immediately washed over him.

"Beckett, where is Cas-"

"He's… fine," she interrupted with a curious timidity, though she did little to restrain her sidelong glances back to a certain empty chair outside the room. "Now can I go?"

Roy cocked his head slightly to the side. "Where do you need to go?"

She opened her mouth hesitantly as her eyes dropped to her lap.

"I'm here for John Raglan." The very moment the last punctuation of her words left her lips, Beckett leaned forward in her chair and placed the booklet on the Captain's desk.

The furrow in Esposito's brow deepened slightly. _That's what she risked her cover for_?

"John Raglan…" Ryan said slowly as though he was testing the taste of the name. "Who is that?"

He briefly looked over to his partner and gave a small shrug. The name was new to him as well. He glanced to the Captain for some sort of clue; after all, the man knew her and any poor fool on her shit list better than anybody. His confusion immediately amplified.

Roy Montgomery, the kind hearted ass-kicker that he'd always been in the Latino's eyes, looked like he'd just been sentenced to death.

"Hey Javi," the low, whispered voice of his partner filled is ear. "Why does the Captain look like somebody who just caught Santa Claus at a strip club?"

"You've been around Castle too long, bro." Esposito hissed back, his glance shifting between the two in front of them. At the very least, he mused after a moment, he wasn't the only one who noticed the boss's peculiar demeanor. A strange silence was beginning to settle in the room, and neither Roy nor Beckett seemed to care to elaborate or react for that matter. Something was amiss here.

"So," Esposito spoke up. "Who's this Raglan guy?"

"He was the lead investigating officer on my mother's murder." The voice that gave his answer certainly came from Beckett, but never had he heard it so cold.

"Alright, whatcha need him for?" he replied.

"He's in there…" She paused for a moment and pointed towards the booklet. "Senator Burbury's personal account ledger."

_Oh. Oh, shi_-

"That's an account ledger?" Ryan gave a low whistle before adding, "That thing is as thick as a book."

"He had debts with many devils." She replied lowly. "And I owe this one a visit."

The meaning behind her words sank in like a knife in his gut. Beckett was never one to mince her words, nor did she share the affinity of waxing metaphor like her partner. What would leave her lips was a sacred oath. For anyone who knew her, the goal was as clear as glass, and that did not paint a rosy picture for this John Raglan's future.

Without a second thought, Esposito gave a quick, discrete gesture to Montgomery, hoping that the chill currently climbing it way up his spine was a sentiment equally felt. Counting his blessings for being just out of Beckett's periphery, once Montgomery glanced his way, he motioned his head toward the will and letter. It was now or never- they were out of time to deliberate any longer. That letter would do it, he reasoned. If there was anything short of detaining her that would prevent her from tearing apart some old gumshoe, betrayal via her family in every way but blood would hit the mark.

Yet, to his unmitigated shock, Roy gave a subtle shake of his head and looked down to the will. Then, he casually slid a few nearby folders over it.

"Wait, you're planning on finding him?" Ryan said incredulously as he pushed himself away from the door. "Isn't that… I don't know. Against protocol?"

"Protocol?" Beckett replied with a hint of forcefulness. "A dead man- a member of Rathborne- paid him, who by the way is the sole reason for this _federal_ investigation. In what world would that not be in the confines of legality?"

Esposito shook his head emphatically. This had to stop. "I get the connection and I get the bad ties, but you can't just track the old fart down and-"

"The hell I can't! The moment his name made it in that ledger was the very second he became tied to a known member of Rathborne!" Beckett snapped back. "Do you know who else is in here? Do you?!"

Too stunned to talk, he simply watched as all the rage laced in her voice steadily filled her eyes. There had been only one other time he'd seen her so vulnerable, one other time the chica had lost that enviable cool of hers in the place she guarded it the most. He knew the name she would speak before the long, deep breath that would carry it was drawn.

"Coonan." The name spilled from her tongue like venom and he was sure he felt Ryan flinch a little beside him. "Dick Coonan is in here and _you_ _two_ want to warn me about protocol?"

"Whoa, sorry Kate, um I just-"

"Stop." Montgomery suddenly interrupted. "You don't need to apologize, Kevin. Kate, we're just looking out for you here. You have to see that."

"I appreciate your concern- you too, boys," she added tiredly with a glance over her shoulder. "But I'm telling you that you have nothing to worry about. I just need answers."

He turned his attention back to the Captain and suddenly every fiber in his body was screaming at him to echo the very last sentence Kate had said. The expression on Roy's face made him nearly unrecognizable. It wasn't the look of a boss, a friend, or a man in the know; it was fatherly, tragically fatherly. Gone was the cool, collected man never barren of wisdom or answers and in its place were a sullen air, hesitant eyes and a frown only a few jagged lines away from a full grimace of pain. It was raw, it was pitiable. It was too much for the young detective to see any longer. Then, a movement caught his eye. To his surprise, and his relief however morbid it was, the Captain's hand brushed away the folder hiding the will and letter. With both hands, he picked up the folder containing the will and letter and pulled it to his chest. The firing squad had found its mark after all. Doing his best to quell the confusion harrying his thoughts over the elderly man's demeanor and sudden change of heart, the young Latino watched on in sympathy, waiting for the unenviable confession to spring from Montgomery's mouth.

"Tell me what's gotten under your skin."

Esposito blinked owlishly at his boss and couldn't help but wonder what he was getting at. The notebook, the thing that held every single answer he possibly needed was right in front of him, and yet, the man's eyes hadn't even chanced a glance its way. It was as if the most glaringly evident piece of information that explained Beckett's behavior was the last thing the Captain wanted to acknowledge. A father to his bones, indeed- one reunited with a long lost daughter, gleaning every speck of information of her life save the diamond ring on her hand.

"Isn't it obvious? Are you going to let me go or not?"

The Captain gave a slow shake of his head. "You know as well as I do he's been retired for quite a while. Everything on him is moth-balled down in archives."

"Then that's exactly where I need to be right now."

Upon her words, something changed in the Captain's eyes.

"Are you sure about that, Kate?"

"Look," she wiggled in her chair and gestured around her torso. "I'm not bleeding, I'm not shot. I'm not angry. I'm perfectly fine. So please, let me go to archives and be out of the way so you guys can get back to working on Paul Krashinko."

"I'm not talking about you." Montgomery replied as if it was the simplest explanation in the world, and after a moment, he placed the folder back down, this time directly on top of Burbury's booklet. "I'm talking about where the ones you love are."

For all he knew, Roy could have been hinting at the lost man who left the will, not the other man who she left in the wilderness. That simple statement could've been the preamble to him confessing to the worst secret they've ever kept from her. That's what he expected, what he was bracing for. Then again, he thought as her stoic face turned to stunned, widened eyes, and a faint heat climbed up her cheeks, maybe it was a preamble to the worst kept secret she'd ever denied. From the way Beckett's head jerked up in reaction, if Esposito didn't know any better, he would have sworn she'd just been sucker punched by a ghost.

"What are you saying?" Though it only came out in a whisper, the warning in her voice was loud and clear.

"You don't need to do this."

"Why are you blocking me on this?" she cried.

"Because I know _you_." At once, Montgomery leaned over his desk and slammed his hand down on to the booklet. "I can see it in your eyes right now. The same damned anger the day I caught you in archives going over your mom's murder is in there right now. I know you will give that man hell or send him there if he doesn't cooperate. You've been betrayed and all you care about right now is blood. You are better than that, Kate! If your partner was here instead of wherever you ditched him, he would agree with me too!"

Like a burst from a waking volcano, she surged up from her chair and opened her mouth with a terrible snarl. It looked as though all the furies and their host would erupt from her lungs any second, but suddenly before his eyes, her lips clamped shut and she fell back into her seat visibly deflated.

"I am where I… I have to be." She said quietly, sternly. "I have to be."

The Captain shook his head. "I refuse to believe that."

Esposito looked to his partner, searching for confirmation that what he just witnessed wasn't some sleight of his sleep-deprived eyes. Something had her rattled, something that both angered and frightened the hell out of her far more than John Raglan, and there was only one man on Earth that could have that effect on Kate Beckett.

The sound of a drawer opening then slamming shut tore his attention back to the Captain. His right hand was now resting and the center of chest, curled into a fist.

"Before you two left, Castle gave me this." With a flick of his wrist, his hand opened wide and an object soared from the clutch of his palm, catching speckles of the setting sun as it came crashing down onto his desk with a clunky jingle. "Those are the keys to his home."

He had to give it to the Captain. The man had some Empire State-sized cajones on him. The four-year dance between her and her partner was something they all felt they had a bit of investment in. Granted, they ribbed her about it all the time, but who wouldn't? In an odd way it was more than playful banter though, more than brotherly affection. It was an affirmation of sorts to remind her that her happiness meant just as much to them as her performance on duty. Castle had always had a way of getting under her skin, gleefully prodding her to do things the Detective Beckett of five years prior would go nuclear over. And that was a good thing, a damn good thing.

"He said these keys open the door to more than just his home, that it houses the things that were too big to fit in his heart. He said to keep them safe. I told him that he didn't have to go through with this; leave the investigation up to Beckett because she's trained for it. He just shook his head, smiled and said that some things mean more to him than his safety right now."

As the days grew to years, somehow the writer boy's presence had brought out a side of her stronger than her toughened exterior and less guarded at the same time. She smiled more; she cracked jokes no matter how terribly a case was going and she was a better detective for it. She was just… happier with him around. And to say that about her was bittersweet and breathtaking all at once. All of them could see there was something special unfolding between them, but never did they vocalize it. They knew her too well. Something that sacred, that life-changing, was as fragile as the scars that covered her heart. It was up to Castle. That was their unspoken agreement. He would always find a way to get her to talk. Then again, never before had the indirect invocation of his name ever rendered her speechless.

"He said that he was going with you, come hell or high water, because he wanted to make sure that someday you could have the same thing he does. I asked him what that was… You know what he said?" Montgomery paused, letting his words sink in. "He said- you're holding it, Roy."

The game had most definitely changed.

"Now I want you to ask yourself, are you doing the same for him?"

For longer than he cared to think about, Beckett remained utterly silent, her gaze frozen on the covered booklet lying before her. Then, as if some spell weaved from Montgomery's story had suddenly been ripped asunder, she snatched up the booklet, sending the folder containing the will and letter diving to the floor, and then she quickly stuffed it into the side pocket of her jacket.

"He's…" Her voice faded into a sigh before she shook her head and pursed her lips. "He's not my biggest concern right now."

The room fell into a chilly silence. Looking from his partner to his boss, the young detective shook his head in disbelief. She couldn't mean that, she just couldn't.

"Do you really want to go this route?" The warning in the Captain's voice was unmistakable, not to mention the thrum of sadness that carried it.

"I need everything we've got on Raglan, sir." Beckett replied flatly. "And I need it now."

"Fine." Montgomery paused a moment then pointed to the door. "Javier, go dig it up."

"But sir!" Beckett shot up from her chair looking positively outraged. She whipped towards him and Ryan and fired off a murderous look that nearly made him blanch in shock.

"Cap," Esposito instinctually backed away. "Should she just-"

Montgomery immediately held up his hand again and shook his head. "You are staying put, Kate. Esposito, go get Raglan's file right now and that's an order."

"Uh… you got it boss." Javier looked over to his equally befuddled partner, who then promptly looked to be busying himself counting the tiles on the ceiling. Without another word, he turned his worried gaze out into the bullpen and began his trek, trying his best to tune out the shouting match growing in volume behind him.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

When he took the late Alvin Burbury's position as Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, Eric Engelmann knew that certain pitfalls would occur. After all, it had only been a week since Burbury was murdered. The media were still thirsting for anything regarding the dead man's deeds. Pundits and colleagues alike were coughing up theory after sordid theory about the small-statured Senator. Along with such rampant platitudes came the inevitable christening of monikers by anyone outside of his miniscule circle of friends.

Eric was one of the lucky few to garner a new one.

_The Old Cub_.

The dig was about as subtle as one would expect in the world of Washington politics. Cubs, they have tenacity, the ambition. Nature and a healthy supply of genetics ensure they have all the necessary tools to fend against everything in their path. They travel with their elders on hunt after hunt, fine-tuning their innate killing instinct into a perfect marriage of grace and death. But when it comes time for the kill, the cub is helpless. Its very survival hinges on others fending and supplicating for it. It doesn't know or care about titles like alpha and beta. It doesn't know that it is utterly powerless even amongst its own kind. All it cares about is when it's its turn to feed.

A cub doesn't know its place in the pecking order. It has to be taught.

Eric had endured many nicknames over the course of his forty-seven year career: shadow, fence-sitter, ghost of Congress… all of them carried as many positive meanings as outright insulting undertones. He was perfectly fine with them, and if he was totally honest with their existence, their implications weren't all that slanderous, nor were they born of any falsehood. Where most of his colleagues roared to the rafters like lions for their party or their cause-de-jour, he was a mouse. He was the quiet one that slipped through every high and low the nation had seen for nearly half a century unscathed and unheard. These names, these _titles_, were a product of his almost inaudible tenure as an elected official. He was the embodiment of the silent middle, the agreeable, reliable compass of the nation. Never a yes man, but never the foil either.

It was the easy way; as they say, the road oft traveled. After all, one doesn't simply earn the loose-lipped trust of both major parties by picking sides, picking fights, or picking the pockets of lobbyists. It was easier to simply pick nothing at all.

Was it the legacy he yearned for when he took his first oath of office? Not in the slightest. He prayed every night his first month as a Senator that a day would come when only he would stand when all his colleagues knelt to the whims of greed and vile men- when the cosmos would reward him his Mr. Smith barnstorming for Old Glory moment. He wanted to change the world.

Alas, he learned quickly why many elder statesmen referred to incoming ilk as 'children'. One would think it was meant to be a damning call, exposing the near incredulous levels of naiveté each and every newcomer would surely possess. One would be right. Yet, as it goes with anything spawned in this city, even the truth has a big, star-spangled asterisk beside it.

_What a fool I was_, he thought somewhat bitterly as he glanced once more to the closed door of his office. A long, shuddered breath left his lips before opening the middle drawer of his desk and grabbed the folded letter he'd received days before.

Such self-reprimanding wasn't as extreme of a reaction as it sounded. It wasn't because of all of the trappings of his youth when he arrived or because the city was steeped in the aged and the unassailably institutionalized. Nor was due to some semblance every single member had to a starry-eyed wonderer on their first day walking into the Capital Building. In fact, being a dubbed a child didn't derive from something as innocent- as crass- as that. Back then, his superiors never said the jab was purely metaphysical, that the intangible part of a trailblazing neophyte was the only part worthy of a cautious tongue and fearful eye. They never said anything about monsters.

"Alan Bryant!" Though his throat had become tired and graveled from weathering the gamut of talk shows and live press conferences, he roused his assistant's name from his throat with a ferocity that would have made the mountain men of his Appalachian forebears green with envy. The note said noon, and by God, he wasn't going to test going one minute over.

The idea of a monster is a purely primal thing. It is the underbelly of the unknown, one's very own hell manifested. Monsters are goliaths that wait in shadows, incalculable in enormity and ripe with intent. Their sole purpose is to incite a kind of fear that strips every shred of a person away and leave a quivering, frightened husk in their wake. And really, what can crush the spirit as soundly as that? Ask any child about monsters, and they will tell you that fear can grow a form. The rustling noise under the bed is real. The bump somewhere in the bleak of a closet is closer than one realizes. As his father once told him and as he once told his own children: whether somewhere in the mind or from the safety of one's bed, there are some shadows that light should never be cast upon. Until this very moment, he'd forgotten those wise words.

And just when the cub was growing into a lion, when he would finally wield the voice he'd always guarded from his peers, this Joanna Beckett person, this ghost- whatever light she brandished glanced across the darkest fiend of them all. They had already taken her, but it didn't matter. The monster was real and it no longer slumbered. He, his career, and all creation were going to have to pay for her sins.

The door to his office flew open in a rush of distant sound and wailing hinges. "Yes sir?" Alan said breathlessly.

"Let Senator Stevenson know that I will be unable to attend his luncheon." He said evenly, trying to hold at bay all the contempt he had accumulated over the past week. "I'm afraid that an emergency has come up."

"But sir," Alan replied in his all too grating, nasally voice. "Aren't you pitching the R&D apportioning oversight to-"

"That's why they call them emergencies, son! Now go and do not disturb me again!"

He glared at the disgustingly affable boy's fleeting form, ignoring the swell of guilt trying its damnedest to hurtle out his lips, until the massive oak door slammed shut. As he picked up the phone to his right, he glanced down to the note, soaking in the single sentence at its top that had haunted him for a week.

_One has to be a mouse lest he seeks to be trapped like one_.

Every politician had a list. It could be held in the utmost confidence of their aides or their spouse. There were some he had met in his 47 years in the Senate who kept it in their desk; some kept them directly over their heart on a folded piece of paper in the pocket of their jacket. But there were others, including him, whom ensured that the contents of their list would die along with them, locked forever inside a recess in their minds not even the slyest among them could breach. What this list entailed commonly spanned a host of things: personal goals, personal enemies, deeds done and yet to be. While others of his trade really didn't mind sounding off on their holiest battles and loftiest dreams on the Sunday morning talk show circuit, to him, these items went beyond the pork they barter or burn on a deal. These things were sacred. It wasn't because he never let his intentions be known, nor was it because he feared pissing off the wrong people. The problem was his list was solely comprised by a side of politics few were brave enough to ply and even less could tame.

Secrets.

The irony of it all was that it was Alvin Burbury himself that punctured the first Homeric-sized hole through the veil of his political gullibility. Though the late New York Senator was only in the infancy of his third term, and he well into his seventh, Burbury seemed wise in the ways of moving the cogs that kept the political machine churning on. After all, chairing the Armed Services Committee with tenure still in its adolescence spoke volumes of the tradecraft he had mastered. Perhaps it was through pity, perhaps destiny, but it was Burbury who tutored him, molded him into less a mouse and more its shadow.

And now, as he looked down at the first quote Burbury had ever said to him, the only one he never repeated to another soul, it seemed the squatty bastard's ghost left one lesson untold. With an unsteady hand, he dialed the number written on the note and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hello Corrine- yes, the wife is doing fine. Oh Jake decided on his major- yes ma'am, Political Science just like his old man- yes, I do as a matter of fact. Could you get me the number for the Deputy Director of the CDC?" As he waited, the sound of the note tapping against his desk barely registered in his thoughts, much less the hand he held it in shaking like a leaf. "Sofia Cannavaro, yes. Her."

His eyes travelled further down the note, down to its contents once more before casting his eyes away in shame as if the face of God was staring back at him. Even after all he had accomplished, all he had grown to be, someone out there knew that the untamable, _old cub_ had once forgotten his station.

"Hello, Miss Cannavaro…" The moment finally came, where his years of shaking hands with enemies, appeasing them, slipping under the gaze of their ire came to a crossroad. All of those innocuous tests of mettle dwindled to this moment; to when the cool, even-keeled timbre his opponents never minded to scrutinize would soon fill his throat. His voice never belied weakness or worry before, and in this moment, he prayed that if only one more time, fate would oblige again.

"…I am calling on behalf of Mister Tanner."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Esposito flipped through the freshly printed file again- then again. The floor beneath his feet shook to a stop and the elevator doors slowly slid apart. As though he were on auto-pilot, his feet carried him into the bullpen, maneuvering undeterred around desks and other officers, his focus never leaving a dulled and grainy photo of a slightly pudgy, balding man with muttonchops and a bushy mustache clipped to the folder's top. He couldn't help but shake his head in confusion. Was this right? Was Beckett mistaken? A cursory glance of his voluminous arrest record revealed absolutely nothing. This man's career looked like more of an uneventful game of musical chairs between numerous precincts than a rap sheet of reasons he had Beckett's undivided attention. Mediocre was too kind of a word for this guy. Surely, this couldn't be the man Beckett was biting off the head of the Captain over.

It just couldn't be.

"Javi! Hey Javi, over here!" a hissed voice sounded from his right.

He looked up from the file to see his partner leaning out from the break room's door, his eyes frantically darting to the Captain's office again and again as he waved his arms.

"Get over here! Now, Javi!"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

AN: I deliberated for quite some time on whether Esposito and Ryan would actually know who John Raglan is/was before the events of this chapter. Even though Beckett had buried pretty much every detail about her mother's case prior to Castle coming into her life on the show, I'm 100% sure that at the very least Montgomery and Esposito would know who the lead investigator on the case was. However, for this story I felt that Esposito not knowing who Raglan is serves as an excellent way reinforce how protective both Montgomery and Beckett are about her past. It's been my intention throughout this story to shine a very big light on how uncomfortable Esposito and Ryan are with being a part of the investigation even though they want justice for her as deeply as Castle does. Her mother's case is one taboo they've been completely unwilling to cross, and that hesitancy is the catalyst for most of their decisions (both good and poor) up to this point and far into the rest of the story.

Next chapter will be the third out of four parts of this arc. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	34. Seeing is Believing: Part III

**Chapter 34 – Seeing is Believing: Part III**

"What are you doing out here, bro?" The Latino whispered curiously as he slipped around the threshold. Hurriedly grabbing Ryan by his shoulder, he tucked Raglan's file underneath his arm and guided them towards the coffee machine until he was sure they were out of sight.

"I had to get out of there before Beckett started breathing fire." Ryan replied with a half-hearted shrug, but there was something disingenuous about his attempt at humor, something off-kilter with the latent, oblique Irish lilt that always accompanied it. He opened his mouth again not a scant second later, but promptly clamped shut. Ryan pursed his lips and peered over his shoulder towards the direction of Montgomery's office, only to bite out a curse not a second later. Esposito was about to repeat his question when the young Irishman's focused gaze balked with a glean of panic, and in a blur of motion and stammered explanations, his hand dipped into the left pocket of his jacket. "And… well, back at Papa Beckett's place, I think I might have found-"

"Is that Raglan's file?" Beckett's voice filled his ears just as the staccato click of her heels heralded her arrival.

He whipped around coming face to face with her eyes fixed on the folder, holding out an expectant hand.

"Javier, Kevin, what are you two doing in there?" came the voice of his boss. With not the slightest hint of preamble, Montgomery marched into the room, immediately shooting its three occupants a bewildered look.

He cast a furtive glance back to his partner, mentally noting that his hand had retreated from his jacket. Odd, he thought. Since when did Ryan come across anything to hide? He never said anything about finding something at Papa Beckett's- he would have, right? Did the man have something he didn't even want the Captain and Beckett to know about? Whatever he was hiding, he knew his partner well enough to presume he had a good reason for doing it. Putting on his best poker face, he turned back to his superiors and mimicked his partner's shrug.

"Oh, just thinkin' about grabbing-"

"_I said_, is that Raglan's?"

Montgomery, who was standing just behind Kate, gave a subtle, warning shake of his head.

Looking back to her, it was hard to miss the glint of impatience in her eyes, the hint of a predatory snarl threatening to break the stony indifference in her lips, much less the fading tinges of pink spackled over her flushed, faintly bruised cheeks. There were only two things that brought out that kind of fiery blush, that involuntary and probably unconscious exposition of where her emotions lay: a suspect refusing to cooperate, and well, Castle refusing to cooperate. It was only in those moments that the limits of Kate Beckett were truly tested. Everything else, the girl plowed right through like a roaring train. Shooters, bombers, psychos, she could deal with them without batting a lash or having the worst they could throw at her come close to piercing a nerve. Since the first day he met her, even if everyone around was fuming with frustration over a case or anything it entailed, she would always be there mindful and cool. Nothing could rattle her, even when her nerves were exposed at their rawest. To see her like this, just a few ill-timed suggestions away from going Hulk Smash on his ass, he had to admit he was honest-to-God worried about how she was going to take what he'd the file had revealed to him.

"I don't think you want to keep the lady waiting, Javier." Montgomery said quietly.

Glancing back down to the folder under his arms, the Latino felt a weight settle in the pit of his stomach. Waiting was the only thing he could think to do, though; just like he was for some sign of hope that her father's vanishing would have a happy ending. Just like he was that she wouldn't hate him and Ryan for the rest of their lives for keeping the fate of the last remnant of her family from her. Waiting: for the other foot to drop, for his worst fears about this case to be realized. It didn't matter which way, he thought, whether this ended with her gun in his face or in somebody else's, he couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't going to end well for anybody anymore.

"You're right," he replied after a moment, "but I don't see what the fuss is about."

"Is that right?" Beckett raised a single brow, looking as though she was scrutinizing- maybe even reprimanding him- for such an indifferent response. The next thing he knew, one of her hands shot to him and promptly snatched the folder from his grip.

She wasted no time; no forming of thanks left her lips or any other sign of being aware of the three men around her- her surrogate brothers that would willingly risk life and sacred bond to make this nightmare end- was still there. She was too far gone, was the single, sobering thought running through his mind as she ripped open the file as though it contained the only balm to the still festering wound the very bastard in that file helped open.

He knew the very moment her eyes landed on the line he was too damn afraid to vocalize. All the color, the fire, drained from Beckett's face.

"This- this can't be right." Her eyes bolted straight to his, baleful and unblinking. "Javier, are you absolutely sure this is-"

"-He died 5 months ago, Kate."

"This can't… but…" she muttered as her eyes turned forlorn as they fell back to the contents of the file.

"It- it was lymphoma," he added with a careful, quiet tone a moment later. "He died of cancer at a hospice in Brooklyn."

It was like seeing her crumpling over Dick Coonan's dying body all over again, torturously watching on, void of any consoling word or gesture that could adequately rival her despair, as chunk by seemingly impregnable chunk of armor crumbled away from the real Kate Beckett hidden beneath. Before her friends, her family in every way but blood, the mythical woman of tenacity and heart dissipated until all was left was a lost, wounded girl only wanting her mother's embrace.

Though the Captain looked momentarily stunned at the news, he sobered up quite quickly and moved to her side.

"Look, Kate-"

"Sorry," she interrupted, lowering her face until her long, wavy auburn locks masked any hint of state of her emotions. "I'm sorry about this. I… I have to go. Castle, he's…"

Without warning, she shoved Raglan's file into the Captain's hands. At once, she turned on her heels and fled the room.

"Kate." The Captain called for her before marching into the bullpen after her. "Kate!"

With a quick glance to his partner, both of them followed their boss out and turned toward his direction just in time to see Beckett grab the wrist of the lanky guy that accompanied, yanking him so roughly that he stumbled with every haphazard step she made toward the exit. She dragged him through the open elevator doors, then immediately turned around and punched its unseen controls.

"All of you get back to work!" Montgomery shouted to a few frozen onlookers in uniform who were watching Beckett's retreating form. "Kate! I'm not letting you-"

His plea was cut short, seemingly stoppered somewhere in his throat, when her face finally rose, casting them a glance, exposing a pair of pained, tear-filled eyes just before the doors slid to a close.

"-go like that…" he finished somberly.

The three of them stared at the door for a few moments, then Ryan spoke up to his left.

"I hoped I'd never have to see her like that again…"

Esposito bit down hard on his lip, hoping with every fiber in his being that the pain would quickly dwarf his sudden urge to chase her down and spill everything- anything to keep her in their sights until this nightmare blew the hell over. The Captain had been right to refrain from telling her about her father again. Coupling that with having the chance to get her hands on Raglan stolen from her, she would lost it completely.

"Boss?" Ryan quietly muttered.

"Yeah, Kevin."

"What's the plan…?"

That was the problem wasn't it. No structure, no protocol existed for a situation like this. The perils both Becketts undoubtedly faced were in and out of their hands from one moment to the unknowable next. Esposito wanted to curse, to scream some sense into both of them for the impossible choices they had wrought on him and his partner, choices that would undoubtedly end in disaster no matter which way they went or which soul they focused on to save. As if he didn't already feel as if they were being pulled in too many directions at once, they still had Paul Krashinko's death to investigate.

He was nearing his wit's end; the need for any semblance of command was becoming all too overwhelming. With a long shuddered breath, he did the only thing he could think to do. He looked to his Captain for an answer. Then, he waited.

"We learn whatever we can from Jim's letter and will…" Roy spoke after a moment of thickened silence.

_And burrow the knife even deeper_, Esposito thought ruefully before chiming in. "And if we find nothing?"

"No matter what we find in there, we do what we should've been doing all along, boys. We start on Krashinko's murder." With his gaze still frozen on the elevator, Montgomery rummaged around in his pants pocket for a moment. Then suddenly, his outstretched hand appeared before Esposito holding a thin ring with two keys on it. "The largest one opens this place up- it's my spare. I don't care how long it takes you two to do it, even if it means living in the break room for a while, do not leave here until you have a full profile, credit and call history, and a corroborated forensic analysis on Doctor Krashinko. I want to know what he did, what he loved, and what he hated. I want to know if he didn't like his own damn grandma's cooking. Understood?"

"We'll find everything, sir." Ryan avowed.

"We're on it boss." The young Latino echoed determinedly. Tearing his gaze away from the elevator, he stepped forward and turned and faced the two men. "I have to know, though. How much tape are we gonna run in to on this guy?"

"Fed's did it all in-house." The elderly man replied. "The man was murdered right beside a Senator, after all."

"So it's going to be hell." Ryan groused.

"Not at all." Montgomery noted. "Brooks probably informed every branch about you two working this section of the investigation the moment he decided to bring you in."

"Ah yeah, forgot about that." Esposito quietly admitted, and it wasn't much of a stretch to fathom why for him. The past 48 hours seemed like a lifetime with only the thought of finding Jim Beckett commanding his focus.

"Talk to whoever you have to for everything on this guy and report to me no matter the hour of the day when you find something. There has to be reason he was at Burbury's house, one that Castle and Beckett haven't even come across yet."

"Honestly, we'd have no way of knowing if they have." Ryan said. "They're undercover, right? The last time we saw them, they were as stuck as we are."

"Oh I think we would," he said in a low, ominous tone as he nodded toward the elevator doors. "I promise you if they've found anything that explained all this, the son of a bitch responsible for it all would be dead already- and she would have been the one pulling the trigger."

"It's all linked somehow," Montgomery continued after a moment, then he handed the Raglan file to Ryan. "I'm sure it'll all make sense once we find out what that connection is."

"Well, we might've already missed it by six months." Ryan mused after a moment.

"I mean… isn't that really the saddest part about all of this is?" Ryan continued with remorseful tone as he tapped Raglan's file against the palm of his hand. "There's really no telling what kind of secrets Raglan took to his grave, you know?"

After a moment of silence, the Captain slowly nodded, his unfocused eyes still fixed to the elevator door as he gave a curiously hollow reply.

"Yeah… no telling."

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As the elderly agent emerged from the interrogation room, there was a very familiar expression on his face.

"I'll be right back, Mister Castle. Just…" Brooks paused for a moment in front of him and then quickly holstered his gun. "Stay there. Just stay right there."

_Expressions_, Castle mused, he had seen them all before in moments like this - worry, relief, anger- he'd seen them in every hue and every scale the human face could possibly invoke. Of course, it went without saying that his blunders had been the dominant cause of most of them. To be sure, for most other people, these particular expressions were harbingers, heralds to doom and the entirety of its ominous kin. Not for him though, not in any living memory he possessed. There were many times he was chastised for mischief, but even then, there was always ample lenience in his mother's fury- plenty of wiggle room for a child of raucous imagination to navigate unhindered and unharmed. The rather merciful reprieves a vagabond only-child was wordlessly afforded from the moment they first broke rank or their favorite toy was commonplace as far as he ever knew. Lectures were no different from the milieu of accolades and anecdotes he'd gleaned from the artistry of his mother's pursuits- nothing more than critiques meant to push the artist to hone his craft. It could have been a host of things that made his punishments seem less a terror and more an opportunity- his mother, his absent father, the discernible ballet of muscle and voice that separated a reproving frown from a motherly reproach- the fragile demarcation barring the perpetual troublemaker within him from simply being troubled. No matter the case now, he thought miserably, no one ever told him the learning curve for expression was proportionally equaled only by time.

"If Thatcher and Beckett come back before I return, shut that damned door and don't let them in it, understood?" Brooks began to pace backwards like a man edging away from a cliff. The author couldn't take looking at him anymore. "Mister Castle…Castle, do you hear me?"

Consequently, those tell-tale idioms of baleful sinew and contorting flesh spelling out ones demise seldom bore down on him, and he a child to his very core never thought once to divine their magnitude. It wasn't as if he had been some petulant child, irascible and impossible to console when he was barred from getting what he wanted. He was too clever for that. He knew the advantages of perception, of subterfuge- after all; his mother was _quite _a good actress.

"Just… stay there."

It wasn't until the day a younger, though equally inquisitive version of himself asked his mother the identity of his father that he understood that expressions were more than just cues of judgment, of warning. They were signs that he, Richard Castle, had yet again went beyond his station and was summarily cast back to Earth. They were lines in the sand, put there for his protection by his betters, never to be breached again.

And that was a bit of a problem.

"Keep your phone off and _do not_ answer a single call." Brooks' voice boomed down the hall.

Nature, he surmised, was with him in this regard. He enjoyed playing with lines, any lines, blurring them, bending them just a little further toward his desired adventure. It was experience, simple, harmless experience. Then again, as they say, some lines were put there for a reason. Some of those rules and its stewards he railed against with all the tenacity a dreamer could muster were there because _they_ knew what lay beyond those intangible walls. Things not meant for the curious, or for the pure at heart; things that he couldn't write his way out of. Beyond those walls waited abominations and abysses no wide-eyed wunderkind should ever peer upon. Yet he insisted. Time and time again he ventured where he shouldn't and that expressive, eternal signal that his wings were made of wax played out in tandem in predictable fashion, each reprimand as full of expression as the last. But it was harmless. It was harmless.

And now, as he stood with his back facing the latest line to be broken and crossed, the expression he'd hoped to see on Brooks' face had already been swallowed whole by something else. Where it could have been anger, relief, or worry, instead, it was the one thing that made Castle feel infinitely worse.

Pity.

Brooks returned from his search in the midst of a clumsy jog. In his grip, bouncing limply and spilling from his clutches were sheets of linen browned with age and neglect, speckled with only hints of its original pearly white glow. Even in their crumpled and knotted forms, he could see they still bore dusted, moldy outlines of the desks they had covered for decades, and now, Brooks undoubtedly intended to use them as funerary cloth. When he came to a halt at the interrogation door, the agent was gentle and coddling- coddling- in his request for him to stay out of the way. The author obliged, but didn't want his pity. Why would he, after all? He wasn't the one with bullet holes riddling his body, his story never to see the light of day. No. He was the one that couldn't stop this from happening. Pity wasn't the medicine he needed for moments like this.

He wanted suffocating, completely fettering disappointment. He wanted rage. And he wanted it to come from Beckett.

From the corner of his eyes, Castle glanced back into the interrogation room, but only for a fleeting moment. Anymore and all the anger and confusion that had taken hold of him for the past half hour would surely come bounding back. He needed to think, to find a pen and some paper and settle somewhere in the familiar equilibrium between piecing a story together and burning it all away. None of that was going to happen while he looked on, while playing the part of the helpless bystander as Brooks continued busying himself covering both of the bodies.

He needed Kate. The very thought made him want to kick something.

God, he was helpless, wasn't he. For all his wit and boundless creativity, none of it mattered against a gun or the monster that held it. There was a voice somewhere in his thoughts, sensible and calm, repeating over and over that it wasn't his fault, that he had no way of knowing- _be thankful to be alive_. Yet, how could he? It was nothing short of a miracle that he was, but even such a profound truth was about as cheerful as his mother without a glass of wine. He was powerless, a distressingly alien sensation for him. He shouldn't have been. He should have been able to protect himself and Marcus. He could have protected the story that undoubtedly would have been told if he had just… stood.

"Mister Castle."

He looked up to see Brooks stepping out of the interrogation room, motioning for him to follow. Brooks marched left towards the Observation Room door, but the moment his hand grasped round the handle, he peered over his shoulder.

_Great_, Castle hummed; perhaps the lecture was finally arriving. Granted, it wasn't from the source he yearned for, but in this moment, it was good enough.

"On my authority," the agent's voice met his ears as graveled and stern as ever, "everything that you are about to see in here is at your disposal."

Then again, he thought as Brooks' words registered, perhaps things were about to get worse- a lot worse.

"Disposal?" Castle echoed.

Brooks didn't seem to hear Castle. He simply looked down, his eyes scanning over the linoleum floor as though he were memorizing every scratch and chipped edge. "This… This facility has been compromised. I have been compromised… I can't go with you and Detective Beckett beyond this point."

The silence that then fell upon the hallway felt as inescapable and as damning as his admission. Could the lion of the CIA really be implying what every bone in Castle's body seemed to already be preparing for? Surely, he'd already done enough damage.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?" He whispered moments later, and then turned his entire focus towards the author.

He studied the agent's features, desperately looking for even a glimmer of jest or any hint of coming levity. He found none.

Without hesitation, Castle shook his head vigorously. "No."

"No, you don't understand?" Brooks' face donned a dour expression before shifting into some unnerving union between a scowl and a frown. "Or no, you're refusing?"

Of course he was refusing. Was Brooks really that blind? Apart from Beckett sans coffee, no other force in the world could possibly instill such a panic currently pumping through his veins. Every stretch of muscle in his body that wasn't otherwise occupied with day old bruising, crippling guilt, or fatigue felt as though they were just a few twitches away from carrying him far from the Day Care whether the rest of him wanted to or not. He wanted to roar his objections until his throat quaked and whatever was left of his dignity tattered away right alongside his voice.

But, he didn't. Something beyond the chorus of musings over his shortcomings made him pause. Instead, a sound came, brushing through the thrum of blood in his ears like a distant, gentle wind in trembling leaves. It was a curious, staccato sound of rattling, and as the seconds passed, it bloomed into the silent hallway like a rush of rain pattering its way over a tin roof.

Though the haggard old agent began to speak in hushed, clipped tones, all of Castle's focus devolved to a single, illuminated fragment of skin on the back of Brooks' hand, the only piece bespeckled in yellowy light in the featureless black of his shadow- the source of growing tremor.

His hand, gnarled by age and innumerable battlefields, shook as though it had just been dipped in ice; a sign that his paranoia had reached a fever pitch and now it had blossomed into full-blown fear. Brooks did not have a spine made of granite after all.

"You need to ready yourself for any more… unforeseen developments."

"You are not going to die." Castle growled.

"You don't know that." Brooks snapped back.

"Haven't I done enough damage?!" Castle shouted, jabbing his finger towards the Interrogation Room door.

"No more than I have!" Brooks spat and roared in a terrible, tortured voice that writer in him never would have imagined the unbreakable agent before him would possess. The stunned author watched on as the trembling hand still gripping round the door's handle gave a sudden jerk, and the agent slammed his shoulder into the door, bursting it open. "Now get in here."

"No."

"It wasn't a suggestion, Richard." Brooks shook his head before motioning him to follow.

"And I'm not letting you give up!" Castle bellowed not moving from where he stood. It would be all on him if that happened. The deaths sure to come, the growing shadows, Kate's hopes… all of it would be his to bear. And he wasn't entirely sure if that was a fate he could write his way out of anymore.

"Suit yourself. I'll be dead either way." Without another word, Brooks slipped into the room leaving the pointedly fuming author standing in the hallway.

_What does that even mean_, he thought furiously. They had a way out. There was _always_ a way out.

"What is it that you're not telling me?" Castle demanded with an uncharacteristic roar.

At first, utter silence was his only reply- no words, no sound of steps or belabored activity reached his ears. Then, Brooks' face appeared from the doorway, and the very moment the author noticed a pair of steel-grey eyes, sunken and encumbered with fatigue, instead of a pair of standard issue sunglass to mask the beaten, brutal truth away, he knew something was wrong. He knew his wings had just kissed the sun once again.

"Sheriff Teague is dead. He and another officer were murdered in his office this morning."

In that moment, Castle was sure that a bucket of ice cold water had just been summarily dumped over every nerve in his body. Stunned speechless, he crumpled back and leaned against the wall for support, dazedly hanging his head. He was all too aware in that moment that the guilt that had prodded him to ever-sobering thoughts since stumbling his way from the interrogation room had not receded in the slightest- quite the opposite, in fact. Responsibility, a word few ascribed when concerning his ways, was staring balefully at him in the eyes, whispering a claim far too simple and too common to hurt as much as it did. _You should have known_.

With leaden feet, he trudged into the room, indifferent to the blurry colors and shapes of his new surroundings. The old, defeated agent hunkered over a desk resting against the large, wide window surveying the adjoining room was his sole focus.

"How…" The author murmured. "How did they know about him?"

Brooks silently looked into the interrogation room for a few moments, tapping a long finger on a small notepad as his eyes fixed to the two covered bodies on the other side.

"I took my wife and child to a park one day," he spoke in a quiet voice. "There was a… swing-set there, a huge and rusty contraption that made my skin crawl every time I saw it. But my son- well, that was his favorite place in the world. He thought he was Superman up there or just a… I don't know. I never asked. A few days before, I had been bumped over to an investigation about a small heroin and arms trade that had seemed to come out of nowhere and plant about the dumbest, and yet the deadliest, scum right in the middle of Virginia. I didn't dwell on it, to be honest. It was just another group of punks with dismal methods of secrecy, and naturally, the same predictable outcome."

"That day we were at the park was my last day on leave before I was scheduled to hop on a jet to Richmond the next morning. It was only a little while after my son went back to that rusty old swing-set when he called me over from a nearby bench my wife and I sat to keep an eye on him. He was sitting in a patch of grass some ways from the swings, peering down at something between his splayed out legs. When I knelt down beside him I noticed he had a tangled up wad of red string hand as the other was pulling more and more it out of the soil. He asked me to help him find out what it was. I mean, I knew, but the boy hadn't the faintest idea. So I scooted next to him and began to dig. I swear it seemed like that string was never going to end."

"My boy, Aaron was his name. Aaron got a little tired of our treasure hunt and said to me, daddy, why don't you just cut the string?" To his surprise, Brooks cracked a fond smile as a wispy chuckle rose from his belly. "And I told him the worst piece of advice a father could ever give: if I cut it, then I will never know where it came from. Sometimes you have to follow where the string goes until there isn't any more. Because, no matter how long it takes, something bigger will be waiting at its end."

Brooks paused for a moment and opened up the middle drawer of his desk.

"3 weeks later, my wife and my boy… my son-" The elderly man pulled a tiny spool caked in dirt, yet void of any thread, out of the desk and placed it on the map. "They were executed in their beds while I was leading a raid on this cartel's compound that turned out to be nothing more than a decoy."

Seldom was Castle rendered speechless, but the images the man before him invoked were too horrible to vocalize.

"They did leave a calling card right in the middle of the room where our informant told us the cache of Afghani heroin and three crates of Soviet-era Kalashnikovs would be." Brooks continued with a gravelly, bitter edge in his voice. "It was my boy's teddy bear- Sheppy, he called it- pinned to it was a single white rose."

"I…" Castle said feebly, unsure of how much he should elaborate. A white rose, he pondered absently. Was that there calling card? "I'm sorry. I have to ask why you told me this."

"Because you need to know what Rathborne is capable of when they want they want a problem to go away."

"Rathborne was the cartel Virginia?" Castle said, recoiling in surprise.

Brooks nodded once. "The prototype of the man your Detective shot and killed two years ago- Dick Coonan. I've been hunting them ever since."

Castle silently rubbed the growing scruff on his chin, lost in wonder. How long had Rathborne been slowly sinking its claws into the world, before New York- before Johanna's death?

"To answer your question," Brooks turned, facing him. "They knew about Teague, they knew to silence him, because that's precisely where Johnny Vong died- the only loose end of Burbury's last days, one I might add that you found only hours into the investigation."

"Right, but I'm sure you guys would've uncovered that connection in no time as well." Castle replied. "They surely knew investigators from your agency would be down there in a heartbeat. Why didn't they just kill us and Marcus while we were down in Savannah?"

"Maybe they didn't know where Marcus was." Brooks replied thoughtfully. "Maybe he was telling the truth when he said that only his brother- and apparently Senator Burbury- knew he even existed. But most importantly, maybe they didn't know about you and the Detective either. They're still catching up."

_That makes sense_, the author thought, reflecting on the strange series of events that Marcus gave. Then, he recalled a very curious detail from their time in Savannah.

"Then why did we have a driver waiting on us at the airport?"

Brooks looked at him oddly for a moment. "Come again?"

"There was an officer waiting at their airport to take us to the site of Vong's murder. The Sheriff told us when we got there that a federal agent called in ahead of time to inform them that we would be there to..."

_Wait._

_Wait a minute. Think back, think Richard_!

He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes at tightly as he could bear, replaying the awkward scene at the small Savannah airport over and over in his head until every word and every gesture were as vivid in color and motion as the lingering scent of Beckett's perfume that had wafted around him. He could see it, her sleepy, amber-flecked eyes stirring to a frenzy when she caught sight of the horribly misinformed sign the officer was holding; the musky heat simmering the massive field behind the hotel; the blush rising in her cheeks and the poorly hidden glance she cast his way when she referred to herself as Mrs. Rook…

_"Alright," the sheriff mumbled as he pulled out a small notepad. "Well, according to his driver's license, the vic's name is Johnny Vong."_

_Glancing a worried expression to Beckett, he couldn't help but wonder what was going through her mind in that moment- coming all the way here, anticipating nothing short of a gold mine of leads to squeeze out of Vong's throat only to find yet another block in the road._

_"That's what I thought." The lace of bitterness in Beckett's voice was unmistakable._

_"Do you mind telling us exactly how our agency got word of this?" Castle spoke up. "This new development was basically thrown in our laps."_

_"Yes sir, I don't mind at all." the burly sheriff replied. "It wasn't even ten minutes after I opened up shop that some gruff sounding fella from the F.B.I called me about this Vong character. Didn't even give me time talk or ask how worried I should be- just said to expect a body. I was honestly quite surprised when he told me two agents were already on the way down here."_

_"We were actually on the way down here to find this man before we were notified by our boss." Beckett replied coolly, clearly lying through her teeth. _

_"Pardon my French, ma'am, but it is one hell of a coincidence you came here first."_

_"Why?" she asked._

_"Well, for one, he had two plane tickets on him."_

"…to find Vong." He finished, opening his eyes.

"To find him?" Brooks replied, unable to keep the mixture of confusion of surprise out of his voice. "Are you trying to tell me that-"

He leveled his wide-eyed gaze right at Brooks, cutting the man off. "-The agent that called didn't know that Vong was dead. Think about it. When did you learn about Johnny Vong?"

"The moment your Detective arrested A.D.A Decker for springing Vong from jail," Brooks shrugged, obviously wondering where this going. "But no one on my team was informed that you two were going to Savannah. No one."

"Then, someone else in your agency- perhaps the same someone that ordered Oliver to sacrifice himself to silence Marcus- has a vested interest the outcome of this investigation."

He watched the grey-haired man carefully as his words sank in; hoping that one of them would soon piece this chaos of coincidences and secrecies together.

"I have a theory." He stated simply, his hands began to shake once more.

"I'm all ears." Castle immediately replied.

"Someone knew you were going to Savannah, but didn't know why." The agent pointed to the interrogation room. "This tells me that they weren't expecting Burbury to throw a Hail Mary."

"Meaning?"

"They wouldn't risk compromising a mole unless something caught them off-guard- and my guess? You two catching Marcus DeWitt was enough to scare the hell out of them."

"So how did they know he'd be here?"

"I beg your pardon?" Brooks looked directly to him.

"How did they know that you would bring Marcus here? Castle pressed.

Brooks remained silent, casting him an expectant frown.

"Think about it. This is a pretty unique place, right?" Castle said and the agent immediately nodded. "So how did they know of all the installations you have at your disposal to hold a suspect that you'd bring him to the other side of the country from where we found him?"

When Brooks remained silent, Castle looked back into the interrogation room for a moment. "How long was Agent Oliver under your command?"

A single grey eyebrow rose at his question. "Five years, and that's not the worst part either."

"Why?" Castle replied with a confused tone.

Brooks shook his head and sighed angrily. "I was the one who hand-picked him to be stationed here."

Castle gave an audible sigh of frustration. The giant had guarded this place for five years and there was really no way to tell how long he had been a mole. What could possibly be worse that knowing you employed a mole for that long? For a moment, he wasn't sure if he should be impressed by Oliver's resiliency going undetected for years, or if he should be shaken to his very core that whoever had put him there had prepared for this day for so long.

"That still doesn't explain why he didn't shoot me," Castle muttered quietly, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

To his surprise, Brooks let out a throaty chuckle and shook his head.

"What's so funny?" Castle panned.

"I figured that would be the simplest theory for a storyteller like you." Brooks said before opening the door to the O.R., "Before DeWitt could slip up and create an excuse to kill you, Oliver killed him. Something he said must have triggered his death prematurely."

Castle's eyes shot open and he pointed to a double-stacked wall of monitors resting on the other side of the desk. "Are these working?"

Brooks leveled a curious gaze on him and replied, "Yes, but why does that-"

"Were they recording?" The author interjected, unable to contain the sudden rush of impatience spiking his in chest.

"Of course," Brooks answered. "What are you getting at?"

"The last thing Marcus said, do you remember it?" Castle explained as he hurriedly scanned the small, broad panel of buttons and knobs stretching underneath the cabinet of screens. One particularly large green button caught his eye and he quickly punched it in with his thumb. A smile, a very welcome smile, grew over his cheeks when all of the monitors suddenly flickered to life. "He called Agent Oliver 'Corporal' just before he was shot."

"Corporal?" Oliver repeated with a dubious tone. "He wasn't a Corporal. Oliver never made it past Sergeant before he caught the eye of the agency… Why would-"

"-Oliver shoot him for saying that?" Castle gave a lopsided grin when his eyes landed on a rewind button directly under the middle screen- the only screen showing an angled bird's eye view of the whole room and DeWitt's chair at its center. The moment he pressed it, the screen wiggled through a blur of moving shapes- two bodies being uncovered, Brooks dragging them to their original resting places, his very own shaken form staggering back into the room until he was snuggly against the wall, Oliver rising from his death, then finally, Marcus DeWitt rising from his own and Oliver's gun sliding back underneath his suit jacket.

This had to be it- the one piece that made all of this rational. Nothing that Marcus gave away, not his time in hiding, his expose on Rathborne- not even his crazy stories- spurred Agent Oliver to make his move until this one inauspicious word filled the air. It had to mean something to Oliver, to Marcus, it had connected them somehow. _There was always a way out_.

"You're going too far back." Brooks' voice suddenly filtered through his thoughts, shaking him from his reverie.

"Oh, sorry." Not a second longer passed before Castle released the button and moved his finger over to fast forward. "I'll just move it ahead a little-"

"Wait. Pause that." Brooks suddenly blurted out.

Castle looked over to the agent in confusion. "But I thought you said-"

"Pause that right now!"

Before Castle could ask why, Brooks was already running out of the room and back into Interrogation. Though the ground where the two bodies resided was blocked from the author's view by a shell-cased row of monitors with built-in dedicated hard-drives, he knew the moment Brooks dipped out of sight that whatever he was searching for was under those sheets. For a few moments, he heard absolutely nothing. But then, the agent's voice filtered through a pair of poorly-kept speakers sitting on either side of the desk.

"Son of a bitch…"

Castle perked up and craned over the wall of monitors to peer into the Interrogation Room. Brooks went kneeling over Oliver's body; the dead man's massive left arm was draped over the agent's knee.

"What is it?" Castle called out. "Did you find something?"

"You could say that." Brooks' voice filled the room. There came a quick snapping sound, and Brooks shot back up to feet, letting the arm unceremoniously fall back to the floor. "He was wearing an EKG transmitter."

"As in… used for monitoring heart rates?"

"Yes, and then some."

He must have looked utterly lost at its significance, for not a moment had passed after Brooks marched back into Observation when he slammed a simple black plastic wristwatch down onto the desk and began his explanation.

"These are black-ops standard issue. See that small metal disk near its latch? That is used to monitor the heart rate of an agent. Built in this thing is a heart monitor and GPS."

"Where can you buy them?" Castle whispered as he looked up to Brooks. "Um, I mean, yeah that's terrible...?"

"It is." Brooks clipped. "That device has probably just informed the man that ordered him to kill DeWitt that his mission was a success."

"How is dying a sign of success?"

"When you believe in the righteousness of your cause, victory is not about who dies last, but who dies first."

Suddenly, Brooks snatched up the watch, his brows furrowing over a set of scrutinizing eyes.

"Is there anyone you trust- anyone at all- that can look at DeWitt's and Oliver's bodies?"

"Look at," the author motioned his head toward the interrogation room. "As in critique?"

"As in performing an autopsy." Brooks rolled his eyes and continued. "As in keeping their findings and the body in the utmost confidence."

Castle nodded slowly as he looked back to the video. "Yes… yes, I think I have an idea."

"Good." Brooks rifled through a desk drawer for a moment before tossing a packaged cell phone to Castle. "It's a burner. Don't waste another second, because we have work to do. Text this person and tell them to meet us at…" Brooks holds up the piece of paper right in Castle's face, "this location. Tell them what happened, but under no circumstances do you tell this person who the bodies are or why they're running the autopsy. Understood?"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Only when a chime rang above her head and the silvery doors slid apart, revealing the bullpen of the 12th precinct, did Dr. Lanie Parish tear her positively baffled stare from the phone in her hand.

_Beckett is one lucky girl. I swear that man never has a dull day in his life, _she surmised as she slipped her phone into the left pocket of her slacks.

"Hey Doc, what are you doing here?" A low, feminine voice called out.

She turned towards the direction the question came from to find Detective Karpowski leaning out of the break room, her mug of coffee sloshing its contents to the ground as she greeted her with a mock salute.

"Hey… is the Captain here?"

Karpowski gave her an odd look before gesturing to the other side of the bullpen. "He's in his office."

Quickly making her way across the room, she stopped at the door when she heard hushed voices speaking on the other side. She tapped on the door twice, and immediately, Roy's muffled voice filter through.

"_Come in_."

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Turning around, she was momentarily surprised to find her two favorite dummies slack-jawed and as still as statues beside the elderly man's desk.

"Lanie?" Ryan murmured dumbly.

"Chica?" His dreamy-eyed partner followed suit.

Casting the pair a bemused look, she turned to their boss. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

The two boys, she noticed, quickly looked away, seemingly finding sudden interest in random places on the ceiling.

"Of course not. What can I do for you, Doctor Parish?" Montgomery said after a moment.

"I just got the strangest phone call." Lanie said, unsure of how to even relay what just happened.

Montgomery quirked an eyebrow. "From?"

"It was Castle…" Lanie's frown deepened further as she replayed the baffling request he made in her mind. "I think he needs my help."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"It's done." Brooks announced his return, marching back into the observation room holding a keychain in his hand. "The SUV is parked at the doors. It won't be a problem loading the bodies from there. Did you make the call?"

"She agreed." Castle gave a heavy sigh as he placed the burner phone down on the desk. "Run this by me one more time."

"We don't have time for-"

"Please." Castle interrupted softly, holding up a placating hand. "Just one more time."

Brooks shook his head and shut the observation door. "We're taking our departed friends to a nearby body farm."

The shiver that went up Castle's spine couldn't be helped. Oh, he'd dreamed up some pretty morbid things over the years to up the ante on the fantasticality of his mysteries. Yet, as they say, truth will often be stranger than fiction; and if there was any example in the brilliant author's mind that stood out as a paragon of the macabre, it was the invention of the Body Farm.

Though most people have never heard of these installations, any mystery novelist worth their salt would say were nothing short of being a godsend. In the thirty years that has passed since the first came into being, scientists and scribes alike have looked to the research coming from these facilities to explain all manners of death, no matter how improbable or farfetched the mode might be. Be it in meticulously constructed implements in a controlled setting or in the restricted, untamed forests bordering them, bodies voluntarily donated in the name of science were brought their to be studied, to shed more light on the ways we die- to take that knowledge and make it a force even the craftiest killers couldn't elude. Calling these places sacred ground would be an understatement in more ways than one.

To the unprepared, calling these places living nightmares would also suffice.

"Since bodies are essentially stripped of their identities once they're on-site, we can bypass the protocols of mandatory registration into state and national obituary records." Brooks explained.

"Right…" Castle nodded absently. "So there will be no trail for anyone to follow."

"That's the idea." Brooks replied somewhat agitatedly. "And right now, we can use all the breathing room we can get. Once Detective Beckett and Agent Thatcher return- and I mean the very moment they are here- we will go there and they will be put under the care of your friend."

"What about Oliver's transmitter watch?"

Without another word, Brooks promptly pulled opened his desk drawer and threw the watch in it before slamming it shut.

"So it stays." Castle said.

"Now… are you ready?" Brooks said as he leaned forward to flip the monitors off. "We have some lifting to do."

He couldn't say. Ready for what, he thought guiltily as he cast his eyes back to the still running monitors. To stash the bodies? To find some way to prove he was more than just wit and charm, to be useful for once? For the wrath that he was certain to incur from Beckett when she finds out that their best chance and beating this thing was lost because he was too damned weak to stop a monster? Or was it the possibility to ready himself for- that people have died in his wake, more were sure to come, he might have just involved-

His train of thought slammed to halt when something happening on the monitor caught his eye.

"Mister Castle… I said, are you ready?"

He craned closer, squinting his eyes at the recording of him and Marcus in the midst of yammering on about something. It wasn't the words, the total nonsense Marcus was spouting that got his attention; it was how _animatedly_ he was doing it. He'd noticed it during the interrogation; Marcus' hands sweeping over the table in wide, repetitive arcs that seemed to have no pattern. It was just a bored man making ample use of his bored hands. Yet something was off about the way he saw the chained man quickly tap his fingers onto the table just before his right arm shot out once more, dancing across the metal surface in a different, familiar pattern… It was almost as if he was saying something, or maybe even trying to…

_D…_

"What…the…hell?"

He heard Brooks groan to his left. "What are you doing?"

"I… uh…" Castle glanced over his shoulder, but only for a scant second. "I think he's writing on the table."

"Excuse me?!"

Castle edged closer to the monitor. Slowly, the noises around the room, even Brooks' incessant nagging turned to a distant hiss. It was as if nothing else in the world existed but the slightly agile pair of hands sweeping across that table over and over again.

More letters soon appeared.

"A…"

"R…"

"M…"

"You think he's signing on the table?" Brooks puttered out a sigh of obvious agitation. "God, you can't be serious."

"Fast forward… No, wait. Rewind it."

When Brooks' hand did not move, Castle shot a hand over to the button and pressed it down for a few seconds before releasing it and turning his gaze back to the screen.

"To what, Mister Castle!?" Brooks' indignant growl roared into his ears, but he kept his eyes and all of his focus trained on the black and white table in the screen. "Turn that damned imagination of yours off for once in your life and _let's go_. This is not the time to be looking for animal shapes in clouds!"

_U…_

_N…_

"What the… Just- just let me back in up a little more."

Without warning, one of Brooks' hands came crashing down on the controls. "We're wasting our time-"

"There!" Castle suddenly shouted and jabbed his finger at DeWitt's oddly busy hands. "Play it from there!"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

**AN**: The Body Farm (the very first one) was opened in 1981 at the University of Tennessee by the head of the Anthropology department at the time, Dr. James Bass, because at time, there were no institutions solely devoted to the study of human decomposition and its forensic properties. It is also used as a biological examination and crime scene investigation training ground.

The next chapter will be up Wednesday!


	35. Seeing is Believing: Part IV

**AN: **This chapter is a bit of a different style/tone than anything I've done in the previous chapters (you'll see why). I would really appreciate it to hear what you all think about it. Enjoy!

**Chapter 35 – Seeing is Believing: Part IV**

Lanie had left some time ago, undoubtedly speeding off to whatever quest Castle had placed upon her. But those eyes- those depthless, chocolate heartbreakers- they weren't leaving the spot front and center in his thoughts made just for them- just for her- anytime soon. Oh, she hid it well when the Captain recounted Beckett's brief, tumultuous appearance, shuttering the worry he just knew she felt for her friend behind crossed arms and pursed lips. But he knew her. He knew her too damned well for that.

He saw it though, the way her bottom lip quivered as she made her way out into the bullpen like it had turned into a freezer, how heavily her shoulders sagged as she glanced by a row of little elephants parading over her friends desk. Her steps were as slow and forced as it gets._ La chica__tenía miedo._

He couldn't blame her and he wouldn't stop her. Fear, the heartrending and senseless kind, was a proper thing to feel right now.

Everything was in place now. The blinds were closed all around them. The distant chatter of the bullpen had fallen along with the sun a long time ago. And here he sat, stomach in knots, angry tears welling beneath feebly indifferent eyes, here he waited for Jim's elegy to begin. He sat as still as stone in the three-man circle around Roy's desk like it was a bonfire and the letter in the Captain's hand was a tragedy about to be spun over its embers. He tried to clear his mind, focus on the case and not somewhere in the gloom beyond the lone desk light before him, but a cold wisp of air was brushing over the nape of his neck. _Abuela _used to warn of it. It is the touch of ghosts, your ghosts, she would say.

_They have the most to warn you of, Javier._

"You boys ready for this?"

The letter flipped around in the Captain's hand a few times- a noise, something within that envelope scraped along its contents like nails over glass.

He wasn't prepared at all.

To his right, Ryan sat partially reclined, worrying the nail of his thumb between his lips, growing paler by the second. "As ready as I'll ever be," he said to his completely unconvinced friends.

Once Montgomery opened the envelope, he pulled out its contents and gently placed the letter on the desk. _Kate_, the intended reader's name written by a steady, flourishing hand, now stood in relief from its blank canvas speckled with dried drops of tears for all of them to see. The letter unfolded, but a small object rolled from its widening crease and fell onto the desk with a knell-like thud.

It was her father's wedding ring.

He wasn't sure who said it, but the dread that laced the only two words that soon filled the room spoke volumes about the message this sterling silver band surely meant.

"Oh, no…"

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Raglan is dead.

The phrase should have made her feel anything besides more anger. Yet, here she was, too livid to be happy, too wounded by his betrayal to want anything less than closure. Once again, that was taken from her too, and the bastard was probably in hell laughing about it now. He would never see justice or crumble under the kind of divine retribution a scorned, resourceful daughter is capable of. She was miles outside of the city now and still the very idea that she couldn't look in his eyes one more time and burn the guilt right out of them twisted the knife he'd buried in her back even more.

The boys knew it, Montgomery knew it. She would have killed him. It wouldn't have been quick either.

Now all she had, all he left in his wake, was another open wound for her to tend and another journey's end with no answers.

She was getting so tired of this. The dried tears still staining her cheeks were evident of that. She was tired of the chases that only lead to dead-ends, tired of always being too late. She was sick of letting her mother down. Years of setback after heartbreaking setback created this rage she had nurtured for so long, but it was reaching its apex. It was giving up too. And soon, frustration was going to take hold. Unanswerable questions were going to come, and regret was going to be quick to follow.

And speaking of frustrating things- Castle… the way his jaw had set the moment she uttered Raglan's name. He knew where she was going, what she had planned to do. He had every intention of stopping her, keeping her from _this_. Why did he? He knew better than anyone else on the Earth that Raglan was their best chance at cracking the belly of this beast right open. Raglan was their smoking gun by a mile, not Marcus, not even Johnny Vong. Yet still, he wanted to stop her.

He knew she was going to murder an old man…

…Why did that make her lash at him even harder?

The rage seemed justified at the time as she stood face to face with him in that dusty old parking lot. It was a classic case of an unstoppable force meeting an immoveable object. His adamance, his concern, was coming off him in waves. He had to prod and prod just like he always did. That's all it took for those walls he'd burrowed through to rise again. The betrayal that she felt the moment she saw Raglan's name needed an outlet, and Castle wouldn't let her go without…

She paused.

Without him.

"_Before you two left, Castle gave me this." With a flick of his wrist, Montgomery's hand opened wide and an object soared from the clutch of his palm, catching speckles of the setting sun as it came crashing down onto his desk with a clunky jingle. "Those are the keys to his home."_

"_He said these keys open the door to more than just his home, that it houses the things that were too big to fit in his heart. He said to keep them safe. I told him that he didn't have to go through with this; leave the investigation up to Beckett because she's trained for it. He just shook his head, smiled and said that some things mean more to him than his safety right now."_

"_He said that he was going with you, come hell or high water, because he wanted to make sure that someday you could have the same thing he does. I asked him what that was… You know what he said?" Montgomery paused, letting his words sink in. "He said- you're holding it, Roy."_

"_Now I want you to ask yourself, are you doing the same for him?"_

_Beckett remained utterly silent, her gaze frozen on the covered booklet lying before her. There came an image in her mind, it was him, all bright blue eyes and toothy grins. A voice, low and lulling just like his when he wove a story, entered her thoughts, telling her- pleading to her- to stop this madness and use that brilliant mind of hers for greater things. Then, Raglan's name roared back into her consciousness and she snatched up the booklet, sending some folder containing in the center of the Captain's desk diving to the floor, and then she quickly stuffed it into the side pocket of her jacket. _

"_He's…" Her voice faded into a sigh before she shook her head and pursed her lips. "He's not my biggest concern right now."_

She found it easy to hang her head a little lower as that memory replayed in her thoughts. After the concern he showed, after throwing his own safety into the wind, after passing the chair by her desk- his chair- and not once taking her eyes off of it. She said that… she couldn't believe she had said that.

Perhaps guilt was coming first then.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

The Captain's gaze held on the abandoned ring as he cleared his throat. For a while, Esposito looked on as the elderly man simply sat there staring, bracing his features and setting his jaw. He wasn't going to rush the old man, he was going wait. He knew that it was taking every ounce of his concentration to build up the nerve to look upon what he was about to read.

Finally, his eyes shifted to the letter and he began to speak.

"Here we go…"

_My dear Katie,_

_As I've been trying to find the words to say to you, I often find myself stopping for just a moment to look at a picture of you and your mother. The thing is, there's nothing profound about it. It's just you and her bundled up to your ears wrapping presents, busying your eyes with tinsel, hands with tape, and your mouths frozen open with some refrain of a carol rising from your lips. It doesn't have the significance of ones showing the day of your birth, your first steps, or you blowing out an ever increasing number of candles. But it is my favorite of them all. It's the same one that slipped and broke from its frame on the first anniversary of Johanna's death when I had too much to drink. It's the same one I clutched in my hands the day you told me that you were joining the force. It's the reason I'm writing to you now._

_And for the life of me, I can't remember what you two were singing. But I wish I did. God, I wish I did._

_I hope you recall that picture, because within it is the greatest lesson I could ever teach you. They never tell you when you're growing up that one day, days like what is frozen in this picture will mean more than all the accolades and wild adventures of your youth. It's not because its contents are extraordinary or shines with a tenderness rarely seen. It is priceless because it is a moment, a simple, normal moment capturing the rolling, quiet lull hidden among the thousands of crests and squalls in the ocean of life. Never take a simple moment for granted, and never try to make it more than it is. Simplicity is beautiful because of its rarity; because of how unencumbered it is from cause or consequence. Love is simple. It was simple to fall in love with you and your mother. What I didn't know was that I had to fight to have the chance to see that moment again._

_Simplicity was something I never thought too much about until I lost it, until I lost her and almost you. I look at this picture and realize how blind I was to it and how much I took it for granted; how I didn't even know it was there until it was too late._

_And that's where regret comes in. It, for any parent, can be just as powerful as love._

_There comes a point in life, Katie, when you'll step back and take stock of the things you've endured. All the heartache, the tragedies, and the regrets. And you will wonder, could you have done something more to vindicate those moments stolen away from you._

_You will ask yourself to find a purpose for why it had to happen that way, something that makes it all sensible. You will search to the very ends of your being just like I have, and you will come up empty handed. _

_Life, my dear daughter, is supposed to have moments of senselessness. It's supposed to have tragedy, for if it didn't, you wouldn't cherish the things that do make sense. You wouldn't know to take those things you hold most dear in this world and never, ever, let them go without a fight. I didn't learn that lesson until you pulled me out of the bottle, until you saved my life._

_You, just like your mother, are smarter than I could ever know. So, Katie, you know where I'm going with this. I know you won't like it, but someday you will understand._

_It is my turn to save yours._

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"We'll be there in twenty minutes, Detective." Thatcher spoke up for the first time since they'd gotten in the SUV. Even now, there was still a hint of fear wobbling his already squeaky, tenor cadence. Okay, maybe she might have nearly dislocated his shoulder dragging him out of the precinct, but the boy couldn't take the hint.

_Writer-boy wouldn't have either, _a Lanie-like voice chided in her thoughts.

She sighed and looked down to her lap. He meant well. He always did. No one as childish, as stubborn- as loyal- as him could be anything but good at heart. And what did she do to repay him- she let her damned walls reappear. She had taken all of the compassion he'd shown since this case began and shoved it down his throat.

But why? Was it really just anger that made her act the way she did? No, not in the slightest, she thought honestly. For as long as she had been alive, anger had been only able to force her hand so far. Her time in the Box dealing with the whole gamut of sociopaths and liars her slice of New York had to offer tempered that anger. Her job made it more a catalyst of motivation than a weapon to wield.

Subtly, she shook her head with resignation. The heart of the matter was as glaring as it was impossible to deny. Her total lapse in judgment came from something a little deeper, some place with a few more scars to protect.

Because she was afraid.

Because it was Castle.

No other human being got her the way he did. It didn't matter if she was happy or sad, he had some way of knowing before she even opened her mouth. On her worst days he would be there, be it with a new theory, with a cup of coffee, or simply wearing a lopsided grin- sometimes all three- and all the frustration in her bones would simply melt away. He always looked for a way to make her laugh. And when she did, when her testy demeanor crumbled to an involuntary smile, the shine in his eyes could light up the world.

But it was more than that. Though he always seemed to know what she needed, when she needed it, it certainly didn't mean he always complied. If there was one thing that she'd learned in the four years she'd known him, it was that Richard Castle was not a man of boundaries. He lived beyond them, he lived to break them. He always wanted to know what made things work and she was no exception. One look from him and those brilliant blue eyes of his would charge to life. Stories too long to speak and too personal to describe would weave and weave, tighter and longer the deeper he stared, until she was sure that the unabridged body of her life was on display just for him.

Was that why she was so afraid to let him see her like this- angry, scared? _Vulnerable_?

Was she that afraid of getting hurt?

Storytellers by their very nature were dreamers. Their passions were only stoked by the thrill of the next great adventure and what new discoveries there were to be made. What if he didn't like what he saw, she thought. What if, after all her secrets and all her scars were laid bare for him, when all of the great mysteries he was so enchanted by were depleted, that passion followed suit? Would he get bored of her?

Her head was shaking before she knew it.

_No_… _he wouldn't_.

This wasn't the average dreamer. He wasn't the average man. Castle was the kind of guy that would gladly spend the rest of his life finding new perspectives even on the slightest of details. Even now, she was almost positive that he had made some sacred oath to never know what a dull moment felt like. It was a feeling he constantly wanted to share. All his friends, all the people he loved, were swept up into that staggering wanderlust along with him. He truly cherished them all. It took but one look at the way he and his daughter interacted to know that the love he possessed was as fierce and unconditional as his desire to protect it.

Perhaps that was why she forced him to stay away.

She was sure that he would have followed her too. For four long years, through every crazy case and absurd conspiracy, he'd proven his worth by leaps and bounds. Every step of the way, through thick and thin, he remained by her side. Surely, he had to know that this time was different. This was no ordinary case and the people she had no doubts she would be facing were not your run-of-the-mill evildoers. They were cold and callous. They wouldn't care if they had to end a thousand lives to keep their secrets safe.

He didn't need to be involved with that. He had too much to lose and he was too damn stubborn to see it.

She had made up her mind the moment she heard Rathborne spill from the Senator's lips. This was it- the endgame. She would go to the ends of the Earth to find them and bring them to justice if that's what it took. She would do it or die trying. And that, above any other secret she kept, was the only one she would ensure he'd never find.

Maybe she was afraid of hurting him more…

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

_You may not see it, you may not understand these words, but there is a difference between living and existing. When you came to me the day you shot and killed Dick Coonan, there was no sense of closure in your eyes, only regret. For the past fourteen years, you've been waiting for this moment to come, for your chance to right a single wrong as if everything in your life was the culmination of this moment._

_But Katie, what could be more unforgiveable than choosing to simply exist in penance for the life taken from you? What could possibly be more wrong than denying a life of your own? A life lived in honor of the one you lost?_

_This case is going to kill you, and you know that I'm not just talking about death. You live for your job, to bring justice, but what will you do when you finally have it? When all of the monsters that have haunted your life have paid for their crimes, you will stop, look around, and see nothing but ghosts of possibilities. What you are doing to yourself pales in comparison to what Coonan did. He took your mother from us, and he deserves the death he got for doing it. But you are taking the possibility of happiness away from yourself._

_This is your decision, but I already know the choice you will make._

_I've failed you before; I failed you when no father should. But I made a promise to you the day you were born and once again when I took my last drink that I would be here for you. I would fight your battles no matter how overwhelming they were. _

_This is your fight, Katie, but you are not doing this alone. I'll be damned if I watch my little girl walk into the line of fire without her father by her side._

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

Yet…

There were these powerful, intoxicating, seemingly undiscovered breadth of feelings inside of her he was able to stir just by being there, being him, being Castle. The sensations he made her feel were so overwhelming that she often wondered what she thought love felt like before they met.

He was a force to be-

Her thoughts seized and her eyes promptly shot open.

_Love_…

It took but a few scant seconds for her heart to register the single word that just rang in her thoughts.

She loved him.

To her utter surprise, it continued to beat. The realization didn't course through her like she had been struck by a bolt of thunder. Choruses of angels weren't singing in her ears, nor were there streams of joyous tears running down her cheeks. Instead, she found herself completely unterrified at her epiphany. Almost as if it's presence was the most natural thing in the world to welcome to life. Instead, she simply smiled and let the feeling envelop her, finally letting herself slip under the most comforting warmth she'd ever felt.

It was simple. It was beautifully simple.

"Five minutes," Thatcher announced, jarring her from her reverie.

"Sorry?" she said as she stiffened in her seat.

The young man pointed ahead, gesturing down the long, worn, moonlit road stretching its way to the horizon before being swallowed whole in a silvery blue wall of pine and spruce. "We'll be back at the Day Care in about five minutes, ma'am."

It took only a moment for his statement to sink in, bringing along a terrible weight that soon settled into the pit of her stomach. She wanted to scream at the timing of it all.

The case. Rathborne. Her walls. Her fears. They had to come first, she thought determinedly. No matter what, they were her endgame. He would understand, she surmised. At the very least, she would make sure that he would be by her side for it.

"I'll be happy to see it," she said evenly. She couldn't wait to see his face again, not that she would ever admit it to him. Not yet at least.

Someday she would tell him, but not now. Now was too… complicated. Now was too urgent. There were still walls to breach and monsters to slay. Yes, someday soon. Until then, the look that she just knew would be radiating from her the moment their eyes met once again would suffice.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

_By the time you find this letter and the will it is attached to, you will have learned some things that I simply cannot answer. I don't want you to worry about that. Just know that I'm taking care of it. _

_I have just one more favor to ask of you. Live._

_Make mistakes, make memories, take the scenic routes. Find a movie that makes you cry with laughter. Find a story that changes your life. Then I want you to create one for yourself. _

_Never, ever, go to bed angry. Never be afraid of the unknown._

_Keep your friends as close to your heart as you can. You have some of the best in the world, and I promise you there is a spot waiting for you inside theirs._

The Captain paused and took a long, calming breath.

Esposito knew it was but a short reprieve, but that's all that the dam holding back his emotions needed to crack. A low ragged sigh left the young detective, his heart breaking all over again as the words Montgomery spoke sank right into his very bones. He didn't bother wiping away the first tear that slipped down his cheek. Looking over to his partner, he saw that Ryan had the palm of his hand cover his mouth, his fingers worrying over his cheeks. His blue of his eyes now stood in a watery relief from the tinges of red surrounding them.

Before the elderly man resumed, only one thought ran through his mind. He hoped, desperately hoped, that Kate knew that sentiment was true.

_Keep your promises you make to others, but more importantly, keep the ones I know you've made to yourself._

_Tell your writer how much he means to you._

_Tell him now, and not when you think you're ready. Being in love doesn't mean you'll suddenly have all the answers, it means that you'll gladly dedicate the rest of your life to the only reason worth finding them._

_Don't waste another second convincing yourself that someday when things are better, you will. Someday won't always be an option. I know this better than most._

_Don't ever let him go. And please, let him get the best of you from time to time. A guy needs all the help he can get matching wits with the Beckett women._

_Make me a grandfather. I would like that._

_Grow old, but never let the world tell you that you need to you grow up._

_One final thing. I want you to always remember that no matter happens; you will always be my princess and I will always be your knight. Your mother would be so proud of the woman you've become._

_Now Katie, I need you to be brave. Here comes the hard part._

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

The very first thing she was going to do was apologize to him.

The second was…

Kate's smile at the unintended imagery, like any deliberately dormant thing, was slow to stir to life. But once it rose and stretched over her cheeks, it was as though the bitter cold that had enveloped her thoughts receded under the warmth of that one, hopeful possibility.

She turned towards the side window as the SUV slowly came to stop, ensuring that the blush rising up her cheeks wouldn't catch the eyes of the scrawny kid behind the wheel.

"I'll meet you inside, ma'am. There's a few items in the back Agent Brooks needs." Agent Thatcher said just before hopping out of the vehicle and running around to its trunk.

When the sound of the graveled lot crunching under her first step out of the vehicle met her ears, an involuntary shiver swept over her as a curiously cold air brushed along the nape of her neck. She shook it off, tugging the collar of her pea coat a little closer to her skin as she made her way to the building. It could have been the last gasp of her overworked nerves, she thought absently as she trudged towards the building. It could have been the simple sight of the Day Care standing before her once more… and possibly the promise of who it held inside of it.

When its massive steel doors slammed behind her, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the yellowy dim of the building's main hallway.

"Hello?" She called out. No reply came.

"Castle?" She yelled a little louder as she took off her coat and draped it over her left forearm. "Castle, I'm back."

Again, silence.

It was then her eyes landed on the interrogation room door in the distance. It was still closed. She hummed in surprise, unable to keep the swell of a sensation that felt remarkably like pride in her chest at bay. He was still at it, huh? She gave a low whistle as she began her way down the hall. Step after step, her thoughts swirled with images of what she had missed- tense arguments, flared emotions, a pair of mischievous yet inquisitive blue eyes.

Stories were woven, more from the interrogator than the suspect, no doubt. Lies were told as well, too many to count, but he would see right through them and press on even harder. There was ferocity in his imaginary tone, conviction in his animated hands, a dark, enticing pull in his eyes she would never admit she had been caught under before. And right as all hope was lost, her partner, her brilliant confidant she treasured so dearly, would crack a knowing smile and the case would soon follow. Granted, her imagination was running a bit wild, but how could it not? It was hopeful; she needed hopeful. It was something far removed from her life before he came into the picture.

As she came to a stop at the door, she grasped its handle but then immediately let it go. Before she realized what she was doing, her hands were in a blur all over her body, straightening her shirt, brushing away a few errant pieces of lint. Fingers were tussling through her suddenly unfastened hair, situating a few curly locks to frame her cheeks, teasing it all into a wild, wavy, honey-brown mane. Just as the pad of one of her fingers touched the fringe of one of her brows, she froze and yanked the offending hand back down to her side.

"Kate, what in the hell are you doing?" She hissed to herself. _Right now he's just your partner_, she mentally chastised herself. _Deal with the case first, then deal with him later_.

She took a deep breath and turned its handle.

"So, did you miss…" She announced as she stepped in and turned to close the door, mindful to keep the teasing lilt in her voice as glaring as possible. Then, she turned back to the center of the room, and her voice slowly died away with thickening confusion. "…me."

The table was covered in a scattered mess of papers and opened folders. Two chairs on its left side sat empty. Something caught eye on the other side and immediately she shifted her gaze over. The third chair, the one Marcus had been chained to, was toppled over onto its side.

It was then that she noticed a pool of blood and her breathing seized in her throat.

For a moment, her heart stopped. But not a scant second passed before it began to pump like thunder in her chest, harder and louder, as her eyes followed a tapering trail of blood across the floor- closer and closer to her- before it swept just a few inches away from her feet and to the nearest corner of the room.

Then, it promptly shattered.

Her legs lost their strength for just a moment when a mass of white and red filled her eyes. The forms of two bodies, covered from head to toe in blood-soaked sheets, were laid side by side, still. Still…

Two bodies…

Then, her eyes landed on the side of a polished dress shoe peeking out from under the sheet.

"Ca… Castle?" she whimpered through quivering lips.

One lone hand stretched fearfully out towards the sheets only to be yanked back to cover her quivering mouth as a sob wracked her body.

She stumbled away until her back slammed against the wall, shaking her head fiercely in disbelief. _No… please, no…_

She wasn't aware that she had crumbled to the ground, feebly holding herself up with one hand planted under her violently trembling form. She wasn't aware that tears were falling freely from her eyes until the scene before her was washed out behind a blurry fog. But she was acutely aware of the utterly broken, desperately raw way she screamed his name one more time before losing all control of her emotions.

It was a sound she would never forget.

Before her laid her friend, her confidant, her partner- _No, more than a partner_.

Her heart.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

_I should have told you how much I loved you every day._

_Your mother used to chastise me for complaining how quickly you were growing. What she didn't understand was the ache I felt went far beyond watching you learn to walk, then to drive a car, even go to college. The pain was one that every parent must feel, yet is never told to prepare for it. When we become aware of it, these milestones in your life, while joyous, are also bittersweet. It was the unavoidable truth that someday I could no longer protect you as well as you deserve._

_The body grows frail with age, dear Katie, but resolve… resolve only flourishes._

_Which is why, my dearest treasure, you will never see me again._

"I… I think I need some air." Ryan bolted from his chair and rushed to back of the room, and leaned limply onto a bookshelf.

_You will understand one day. The moment you bring a new life into this world, Katie, something inside of you changes. You may not feel it for days, years even- but it's there. It seeps into your bones the moment your child opens its eyes and takes you in. You'll see wonder in them. You will see life bursting back to you so vibrant and untainted._

_You will see yourself in them._

_One day you will be old and grey like me, and as sure as the sun rises, your child will reach a…_

The Captain's voice broke under a deep, heavy sob. He promptly looked away, squeezing his eyes together.

"Roy…" Ryan began, but was stopped when the Captain's lone, free hand gently rose for him to stop.

"I'm- I'm fine," he said feebly. The letter faltered in his grip for just a moment before he clasped it with both hands and continued.

_Your child will reach a wall that, for all their youth and fervor, they cannot breach. You will see it in their eyes- worry, frustration, heartache- no matter how hard you try to invoke some means of comfort. And I can tell you that there is no greater feeling of helplessness the heart of a parent can suffer._

_But there is a difference between you and me. You have the blood of your mother flowing in your veins. You have a capacity to love and a strength and inside of you that transcends a body worn by age or resilience corroded by tragedy._

_You will fight just as I am fighting right now, my daughter. You will succeed where I have failed._

_You will tear that wall apart._

Esposito watched as the elderly man laid the letter down and looked over to another part of his desk with a sorrowful, desperate expression- and there, sitting on the edge by a few errant stacks of files and post-its, was a lone picture of his own children casting radiant smiles back at him.

Wordlessly, he got up and picked up the letter. He sat back down and continued, uncaring that drops from his own eyes were soon staining the words he spoke.

_You will find a strength that seemed lost ages ago, a power reminiscent of a time when you thought mountains could be moved and nothing- nothing- was unconquerable. Love will do that to you, it always will. It will keep you moving forward even when the weight of the world rests on your back. Let it in, Kate. Let it be your greatest weapon._

_There's something that we don't really pay attention to anymore, something that has carried us through countless ages, immeasurable calamities, and the bleakest of fortunes, something you remind me of on a daily basis– our nature._

_It's in mine to protect you until the day I die._

_It's in yours to overcome, Katie. It has always been there._

_Fight to the end._

_I am so proud of you._

_I love you._

_Daddy_

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

**AN: **Now that was rough to write.

The next chapter will be up next week! Its tentative title is 'Between the Lines'


	36. Between the Lines

**Chapter 36 – Between the Lines**

"His movements are repeating… all of it!" Castle exclaimed. He glanced over to Brooks and tapped his finger excitedly on the monitor. "Do you see it?! Tell me you see this!"

"Mister Castle, it's nothing but…" The older man glanced to the monitor with an air of urgency still in his voice. But Castle knew the moment he saw it, for his voice stuttered before his mouth promptly slammed shut. The author looked back to the screen, and sure enough, a giant, slowly arcing 'U' was being traced on the metallic surface.

"What is he…?" Brooks hissed as he peered closer and closer to the scene replaying in front of them. "_Why _is he doing that?"

Keeping his eyes firmly trained on the screen, the author replied. "Well, he did call Oliver 'Corporal'. Maybe they knew each other."

The pieces that comprised that past few hours of chaos were slowly coming together, and as unbelievable as it was to the author, it was steadily making sense. DeWitt knew Oliver. That had to be it. That was his reasons for carrying on such a cryptic, nonsensical conversation the entire time Oliver was in the room. He wanted to get one final message across before died…

Another letter appeared, and suddenly one of Brooks' hands snatched up a small notepad and a pen. Another letter slowly formed on the screen as the sound of the agent's pen scribbling onto paper filled the room. One by one, he wrote the letters down until Marcus stopped for a moment and began repeating them all over again.

"A-R-M-O-N-D-U-N." Brooks recited from the slip of paper. "That makes no sense."

Castle chewed his bottom lip in thought, scouring to the depths of his vocabulary for some inkling of what that meant. The agent was right; no word, not in any language he knew at the very least, existed with that spelling. Suddenly, the author smacked his forehead.

"It's not supposed to be one word. It's a block of separating words- a riddle." Seeing the blank look on the agent's face, Castle continued with motion of his hands down to the screen. "Think less Shakespeare and more Yoda."

"Then where would you separate them?" Brooks asked in a curiously cool manner as he pressed pause on the player.

The author returned the question with an odd look. "Well, at a glance only a few of them make sense, right? We're talking about a man's last message here, one that needed to be formed and told in the few minutes left of his life. It stands to reason that it would be one that couldn't be mistranslated- so that rules out jumbled lettering. So, there can only be a handful of combination of the sequential letters that spell words he knew we would understand."

Castle grabbed the scratch piece of paper and scribbled the letters down. "Let's see… A-R-M, arm. O-N, on. D-U-N, dun…"

"Dun?"

"Maybe Gaelic," Castle shook his head dismissively. "It's nothing. Just… well, let me try again."

He quickly scratched the line out and wrote it again. "Okay, Ar- Mond- Un…"

"Well," He stood back up, scratching his chin." "Ar could either be a code for pirate coordinates, which would be fantastic by the way. Or, something like… wait… Ar, it's an element… which is it… which is- ah-hah! Argon! Ar is the abbreviated symbol for the element Argon on the periodic table. Take that, Miss Croon!"

He did a little skip where he stood. Oh if that old battle-axe could see him now-

"…Mister Castle."

"Right," Castle cleared his throat and pointed down to the paper. "Mond is easy. That's a variant of Mound, and 'un' is… well, it could be French for A or One… No. No, that gibberish. "

Cursing under his breath, he quickly produced another line.

"That's very impressive, Mister Castle. You might have made a great agent after all." Brooks suddenly said in a strange, almost impressed tone. The author stilled his pen, wondering what he was implying.

"There's nothing in your case thus far that has hinted at a site in Louisiana?" The agent inquired. "That may very well be his message."

"Louisiana?" Castle turned to the elderly man. "What do you mean?"

"Argon." Brooks pointed to a large map of the country covering nearly the entirety of a wall behind him. "The spelling is a coded term for classified R&D sites within the continental United States- Argon is the 18th element, which corresponds into the numbering that denotes a state's admittance into the Union. The 18th element is the 18th state, hence Argon is Louisiana."

"The periodic table as a code?" Castle gave an involuntary shudder as he tried to push away a few errant, nightmarish images of a much younger version of himself sweating over a spreadsheet of the elements under Miss Croon's fiery gaze. "That's stretching it, don't you think? I mean, isn't that a bit convoluted?"

"You said less Shakespeare and more Yoda, yes? What better metaphor is there for dealing with the Federal government?" Brooks leveled a pointed look back at him. "Really Mister Castle, have you looked at your tax forms lately?"

"No comment and point taken." Castle gave the man an innocent smile before turning his attention back to the screen. "But to answer your question, no. Nothing has come up about Louisiana; just Georgia and New York- well, Kuwait, Afghanistan, and Florence too. What would Mound A be, by the way?"

"Simply put: the first and oldest Research and Development installation within the state."

"Specifically." Castle said pointedly.

Brooks gave a subtle shake of his head. "I wouldn't know. That sort of information is not in my line of work, nor is it anywhere near my pay grade. It could be anything from weapons to astrophysics or genetics."

"Would there be any way for you to find out? Say, friends in the division?"

"Friends…" Brooks said with a low, hollow chuckle. "I could make a call or two, but…"

"But, what?" Castle asked.

"The man lying in that room," he pointed to the fallen bodies on the other side of the double-sided mirror, "is someone I've known for five years. We shared beers around the grill, war stories- even a few friendly wagers on football games. He invited me to visit his hometown for Thanksgiving every single year. I don't have friends, Mister Castle, but if I ever had to imagine what it felt like to have one, he would have been it."

Castle gave a sympathetic nod of understanding. "And he betrayed you."

"That he did." Brooks said simply and surprisingly with no hint of anger in his voice. "This is uncharted territory. There is no protocol for continuing an investigation when any single individual in our national security personnel could very well be a part of this. For all intents and purposes, I have to assume that every person I've ever placed trust in could just as easily send me to my death rather than help us."

"But we have to do something." Castle replied imploringly. He had to do something, he thought furiously. Anything more than _standing still_ would be a vast improvement on what he did for Marcus…

For a few moments, Brooks remained silent. His eyes stared down to the stilled screen and remained there. The author began to notice something changing in the man's expression. Where his face had been a kaleidoscope of nerves and paranoia since the shooting, little by little, those familiar, stony lines etched back onto his cheeks, forming into his usual grim frown.

"I'll make the call," he finally spoke, much to Castle's relief. "However, when I make it, I want you and Detective Beckett to be as far away from me as possible."

"Why?" Castle asked. "I thought we were taking those bodies to a nearby Body Farm?"

"No, there's a better way," he calmly replied. "I will go deliver the bodies to your Medical Examiner friend alone for the same reason we're putting them under her care."

"A diversion, I get that." Castle shook his head vigorously. "But, shouldn't we stay together?!"

"No," Brooks repeated as he gave a firm shake of his head. "We don't know who is coming for us, if any at all. However, I can assure you that they will be coming here to clean this up. We have to be proactive while we still have the slightest bit of advantage on our side. You're a learned man, Mister Castle, so I expect you to appreciate the old adage of not putting all of your eggs in one basket, and how appropriate it is in this situation. All I care about at this juncture is that I meet her at the Body Farm, do you understand?"

"Then what do you want me to do?"

Brooks held his finger out towards the screen for a moment. "That, Mister Castle. I want you to make sense of that."

Brooks bent down and pulled open the lowest drawer on the left side of the desk. He reached far into its back, then slowly pulled out, revealing a standard issue pistol just like the one strapped to his side. "Take this. You will need it."

Castle numbly looked on as the gun was slapped into his hand.

"So how am I supposed to find out what's in Louisiana?" He said nervously as he clumsily slipped the pistol into the right pocket of his jacket.

"Watch the tape." Brooks said with an uncharacteristic smile. "You've already found something, and if I were still a betting man, I'd wager that your answer is in there too."

Castle wordlessly nodded and looked back to the monitor. Minutes passed as both men stared intently at Marcus' sweeping hands. The motions soon became erratic, Marcus' glances towards the giant agent were coming quicker and quicker. It was about end, Castle thought bitterly. The poor man didn't even know that his life was a minute away from being taken. Then, just as he was about to rewind the tape, something caught his eye. In a flash, he stabbed the rewind button for just a moment before letting it go. As the tape resumed, his eyes trained on the spot where Marcus' hands were coming to rest after every letter. He held his breath, leaned closer to the screen. Then it happened; the very moment the final letter had been formed, Marcus made a quick gesture just before the message started over. It was only a flash in the span between them, a blur of his index and middle finger extending for the slightest of time before curling back into a relaxed grip with his others.

"I have to rewind it." Castle said suddenly as he pressed the button again.

"To what?"

"To the first time he drew out the letters."

He didn't have to far back, perhaps five minutes or so, before Marcus' hands became completely still. He let go of the button, letting it resume at its normal place, and hunkered over the desk to get as close to the screen as he could. Just a few moments passed and then the lightning fast gesture suddenly sprung from Marcus' hands- three fingers flashed then disappeared- just before he began spelling out…

"Two."

"I beg your pardon?" said the bewildered looking agent.

"Two meanings. Look at that. He signaled three fingers this time and…" Castle quickly smashed the fast-forward button, mentally checking off the letters, then as it repeated again, and then repeated once more. Then second signal flashed before Marcus started the same phrase over again. "…he wrote it out three times, before signaling with two fingers and resuming."

"So what's he implying?"

"My first guess? He's probably a ringer at charades. The first three times he wrote out the letters, he made a signal of three, stressing it for some reason. " Castle watched on with a growing smile as he saw Marcus repeat the phrase only twice this time. He took his finger off the button and let it play. Taking the pen in his hand, the author scribbled out the eight letters, and then wrote them out again right below it. "The second time he signaled with two fingers, see? Then he wrote the letters out just two more times. He's stressing-"

"-Yes, two." Brooks interjected. "But two of what?"

"Remember how I said that the letters can only form just a handful of sensible syllabic combinations?" Castle made two scratches with the pen before grabbing the notepad and holding it up to Brooks' face. "That's what he's doing. Three breaks for three fingers, two breaks for two fingers. The letters form two different meanings."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"Hey Kevin, it's Friday night for crying out loud. You're too young to be wasting it in the bullpen!" the boisterous voice of Karpowski sounded right behind the young Irishman before a hand slapped down onto his shoulder. "Go out and show that fiancé of yours a night on the town, why-don't-cha?"

Kevin turned slightly and gave an absent glance up to the woman. "Uh… okay."

Just as he directed his focus back onto the computer, she spoke up again. "Are you going to be here for a while?"

"Uh, yeah," he said as he typed his next query into the state database. He pressed enter and immediately grimaced- there was no Paul Krashinko in the entirety of the state.

A throat cleared behind him. He peered over his shoulder to see Karpowski still standing there with a dubious look on her face. "Doing what?"

"The same as always, Janet." He said in the most convincing nonchalant voice he could muster. "Paperwork."

"Well that sucks. Better you than me though!" The woman clicked her tongue before the sound of her footsteps echoed down the path to the elevator. "Don't get buried in that stuff!"

With a tired smile, he shook his head and went back searching for the good doctor. This wasn't making a lick of sense. Two bodies found side by side, one a Senator on the Armed Services Committee and the other some geneticist, according to Brooks. Yet beyond their death, their commonalities were nonexistent. There wasn't a single charity, organization, or area of living where Burbury had ever been attached to that bore Krashinko's name.

It's almost as if this guy was a-

"He worked at the CDC!"

Ryan's head shot up to see his partner jogging through the bullpen, waving a file over his head.

"Javi?" Ryan stood up as his partner came to a screeching halt by their joined desks. "Who worked-"

"Krashinko," Esposito paused to catch his breath as he slapped the file down on to his desk. "I ran down Paul Krashinko on the Fed's database. He was an employee at the CDC in Atlanta."

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

"Isn't one enough?" Brooks said pointedly, doubt etched all over his worn face. "How can you be sure of that?"

"Well, if what you're saying is true about Louisiana, then obviously we've found one meaning already." Castle looked down at the line he hadn't scratched through yet. "That really just leaves two more combinations off the top of my head."

"Just two?" Brooks echoed.

The author shrugged, keeping his eyes on the paper. "Unless we start going into acronyms, I honestly don't see-

"Un…" Without warning, Brooks snatched up the pen and paper. Just as Castle was about to ask him what he was doing, the agent made to quick scratchest and promptly flipped the pad around for him to see.

"Armond…Un…?" Castle's mouth suddenly dropped. "U-N, surely he can't mean…"

"The United Nations?" Brooks leveled his gaze right back at him. "I don't see what would be so farfetched with that. We are talking about the murderers of a dead Senator here, yes?"

The author fell silent and leaned down onto the desk, cradling his shaking head into his hands. How big was this? How deep did Rathborne go? In that moment, it was as if all the pieces that he thought were making sense, were slowly edging closer and closer to their rightful place, scattered into the winds like a hammer just fell upon it all. He squeezed his eyes tightly. Words began to zoom around his mind- like desert and government, Florence and New York- each looking for a tether of similarity to attach itself to, unfortunately to no avail. Somewhere in this whole mess had to be a lead, something that tied it all together.

"Wait!" Brooks suddenly shouted, causing the author to jump in shock. "Rewind it now."

"Look," he shouted again. "He just wrote a 'B' on the table."

He looked down the video, only seconds remained. Oliver's hand was already sneaking its way towards his hidden firearm, and Marcus- poor Marcus- his hands were flying with a urgency he wondered why he hadn't noticed at the time. He heard a sound somewhere in the distance, but he remained focused on Marcus' moving hands. With each new letter he whispered out, a feeling of shock from somewhere in the pit of stomach, grew and grew.

"B… A… C… C… H… U… S… " Castle whispered to himself. "B-A-"

The sound of a gun exploding through the speaker made him recoil back in shock, and once again, he watched Marcus' body go limp and fall to the floor. He didn't waste another breath. His finger was jammed down on the rewind button without a second thought.

"Bacchus." And just like that, his eyes still transfixed to the looping image of Marcus' last words, a single image of a statue surrounded by candles and cups burned into his mind. "…I think I know where he wants us to go. I think I know where we're going to find our answer."

"Bacchus is, well…" The author stopped and silently cursed under his breath at their luck. "It's the Roman name of the Greek god Dionysus."

"That's great and all, but what does that have to do with Armond or DeWitt?"

"I don't know what it has to do with this Armond person, but…" Castle pointed down to the paper once again, "It has everything to do with Marcus DeWitt because there's a shrine to Dionysus in his basement."

Brooks cocked his head to the side and gave a hollow laugh. "No shit?"

Castle shook his head. "None at all."

Yet, just as the author wrapped his hand around the slip paper, a bloodcurdling scream blasted from the room adjoining theirs. The scream was carrying his name.

"Castle!"

He looked up, his heart exploding in his chest, as he watched the most beautiful pair of honey-brown eyes he had ever seen unleash a torrent of tears. His throat seized, thickening with emotion as the indestructible body of his muse, his partner- no, the love of his life- trembled like a leaf in a building storm just before she crumbled to the ground awash in grief.

He was sure that Brooks was saying something, but it didn't penetrate him. All he could see was her trembling hand reaching for the sheets that covered the body beside her as though she was about to uncover her deepest nightmare. All the author could hear as he burst out of the Observation room to reach Beckett was her desperate wails for him to wake up.

**-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;-; -;-;-;-;-;-;-;**

**AN**: For all the folks who had a Miss Croon (name changed to protect the innocent) for science class, I feel your pain. As you guys probably noticed, I tried my best to cut out a little of the narration in this one for the sake of fluidity. I would love to hear what you guys think about this chapter! We'll be leaving the Day Care next chapter.

Finally, very special thanks to msTGR for inspiring the Shakespeare and Yoda line.


End file.
